


Aftermath

by silberstreif



Series: Till All Are One [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Courtroom Drama, Mystery, Other, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:03:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silberstreif/pseuds/silberstreif
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Great War is only a memory now, yet far from being forgotten. As the Enforcers gather to arrest the former Autobot SIC and TIC, they know that this is the beginning of the end of two exceptional sparks. But as it is with endings, they affect those that remain far more than anticipated.</p><p>"And Ironhide remembered why he had followed these two mechs into bloody battles and hopeless situations, into war and death and horror and eventually into peace. Even now, shackled and bound as they were, they had the ability to let him do the right thing. Just why had they themselves done the wrong thing so often?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ironhide

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: Starfire201 - thank you for your marvellous work
> 
> Universe: Till all are one  
> Continuation: G1, AU  
> Rating: G
> 
> The work is already nearly complete on my harddrive. Aftermath will have 11 chapters all in all.  
> But I'll probably add several oneshots. And maybe later another big story, that starts at the end of the Great War.
> 
> 3: Trypticon // 4: Blaster // 5: Ravage // 6: Optimus Prime // 7: Judge Tyrest // 8: Mirage // 9: Ratchet //10: Bluestreak // Epilogue

Aftermath

 

1\. Ironhide

 

Ironhide didn't like this, and yet he knew what had to be done. He was a mech with clear principles and unshakeable loyalty to his Prime on whose orders he acted here. It was difficult to forget the pain in Optimus' optics as he had issued the order on behalf of the council, so that justice may be served and peace may be kept. It had to be done. It was just.

Still, it felt like betrayal.

"Sir?" asked an Enforcer behind him. Ironhide looked at him. He was young, too young to remember the Great War, too young to truly understand why his superior looked as if walking to an execution. "Sir, everyone is in place."

"Good."

From a neutral point of view, it was ridiculous to bring a whole special unit with 38 trained Enforcers with him, just for two mechs. Ironhide wasn't neutral by any definition and he knew exactly what those two mechs were capable of. He wished he could have brought more.

While checking his weapons, he turned back to the house in front of him. It was small and beautiful, peaceful even, situated next to a crystal field that was slowly recovering. Praxus was raising such fields everywhere for public enjoyment, but this special one seemed to be a private garden, with a small wall around it to keep strangers away. His mechs had ignored the boundary, and were now crouching behind the crystals. It would be a pity to see this garden destroyed.

Far away, he could already see curious citizens watching the spectacle. It was time.

"Howlback, Stungun, follow me."

The white door seemed to be normal, no strange holes or cracks. He pushed the button for the bell. No sign of weapons. Maybe he was just paranoid? Promptly, the door slid open and revealed a slightly smaller black and white mech with a blue visor, who smiled as he saw Ironhide:  
"Ah, long time no see, Ironhide. Who are ya friends?"

It could be worse. Really, he could have attacked them, he could have been away, he could... and yet, Ironhide had the feeling that his spark was torn apart.  
"Hello, Jazz. These are Stungun and Howlback. Can we come in?"

"Sure." He turned and walked into the house. "Do you want Energon?"

The three Enforcers entered the house, the door sliding close behind them. It was light inside, full of friendly colours and a few pieces of furniture. Neither of them had ever liked sentimental things.  
"No, thank you, Jazz. I'm on the job." And he wouldn't put it above Jazz to have the cubes poisoned.

His old friend just shrugged. "As ya wish. Let's all go to the living room, 'kay? Prowl is already there and Ah don't think that ya're visiting 'cause ya missed us."

As always perceptive, even though it was kind of obvious. He could feel how tense his two subordinates were as they walked towards the living room. Prowl was sitting indeed there in a comfy armchair, as calm and regal as ever, his gaze resting contemplatively on a game of Treck. 

It reminded Ironhide so much of scenes in various rec rooms in the past that he was thrown off for a moment. A dangerous mistake, though Jazz ignored his guests, as he strolled past them and took the armchair across from Prowl.

"You're still searching for a way to keep those two pieces?" he asked seemingly amused.

"Of course." Prowl looked up, directly at Jazz. "It's just a matter of how many sacrifices are acceptable."

"You're too fixated on them."

"I can't help it." Prowl looked at them. "Ironhide, it's wonderful to see you again. I've heard that you've achieved the rank of the head of all Enforcers. Congratulations."

"Thank you." He loved his job, just not today. "These are two of my most trusted lieutenants. Howlback, she's in charge of the special units and Stungun, a very good detective."

"Nice to meet you." Prowl stood and shook of each of them the hand. "Make yourself comfortable on the couch. How can we help you?"

Ironhide hesitated, but then both Jazz and Prowl were sitting. Stungun copied him, while Howlback kept standing as he expected. She was too unwilling to give up any advantage.  
Prowl's question still hand in the room like a spectre. Time, to speak the blunt truth:  
"Ah, well, the United Council and Optimus Prime have both issued an order to capture you and bring you back to Iacon for trial. You both will have to come with us."

He prayed that they wouldn't get angry, wouldn't blame him, wouldn't fight. Howlback shifted a bit aside, her hand near her weapon, while Stungun had ceased all movement. The caution was appropriate. These two black and white mechs were excellently trained, dangerous and he simply knew that this house had hidden corners and chambers with weapons. They were too paranoid not to have them. All this could get ugly so very, very fast. 

Jazz and Prowl both nodded without a hint of surprise. 

"'kay," said Jazz. "Are we allowed to take something with us? Maybe the game?"

Prowl glanced at the game. "I would appreciate it if we could end the game before we go. But it's not necessary."

The Enforcers gaped, then Stungun relaxed, his vents giving a deep sigh, and Howlback stood there with an expression of puzzlement. Ironhide wanted to grin. He should have known it. They never did what was expected of them.

"Well, you can certainly take a few things with you, but they have to be checked by Howlback here."

Howlback frowned. "As long as it's not too much."

Jazz smiled. "Don't worry, it's just the game, right Prowl?"

"Don't you want to take the book file you're reading, too?" 

"Ah, yes, that's a good idea." Jazz smiled as he looked questioningly at Howlback. "A few book files and the game then. That 'kay?"

Howlback nodded shortly. If it were up to her, she would probably take them with nothing but their protoform, but she couldn't refuse. They were harmless enough things.  
Stungun stood up. "Where are these book files? I'll collect them."

Good idea. So they wouldn't lose sight of them for a second. And as a detective he would take every chance to get a view around the house. 

"Corridor, third door to the left," answered Jazz, while moving a piece on the game board. "Just take all the books on the desk."

"I will." And he left the room.

They waited quietly while Prowl and Jazz played. Not one word was spoken, and Ironhide felt his optics following the game. Prowl was winning, of course, but they didn't seem to play after the normal rules. Some pieces they didn't sacrifice even though Ironhide could see the strategical advantage, some pieces died far too easily. It took a while until he understood, that they had modified the game so, that the pieces got stronger or weaker if they won or lost, and that these data was kept for the next game. No wonder that they wanted to keep this special Treck board.

Howlback informed the special units that the situation was under control and that the suspects weren't resisting.

Ironhide would bet his whole high-grade storage that at least Jazz had already hacked into every single communication line available, if not both of them. But they showed no sign of hearing her orders. 

Shotgun came back with various book files and laid them onto the couch. "Is that everything?" he asked.

"More than enough," answered Jazz and Ironhide wondered what he could mean. Didn't they expect to be in prison for long?

"You're taking all this better than I expected," he finally said.

"We do?" Prowl's wings fluttered, a sure sign that he was amused. "Why should we resist? We're just normal citizens, aren't we?"

Well, officially yes. They had a small architecture office together, a modest income and tried to live a quiet life. Tried to, because no one had really forgotten that these two had been Second and Third in Command on the Autobot side, and had been one of the most feared and respected bots in the war. The first time Ironhide had watched Decepticons talking about Jazz and Prowl with the same expression of amazed horror he had seen on Autobots talking about, say Starscream, he had been amused. But later he had felt shame, and no small amount of disquiet. The stories told rang far too true.

"Yes, you are," said Stungun with a hard voice. Maybe he remembered those stories, too.

But Prowl only nodded and glanced at the board, surprised at Jazz's next move. "That's a dangerous move."

"Maybe." And Jazz's smile was the same as for every dangerous mission, sharp, wicked, with a hint of exhilaration. 

"You risk the two arms of the leader."

"The shield is still there, so are his followers. And ya forget, from this position he can't fight effectively."

Prowl nodded and then smiled. "So you risk them, to keep your whole side stable." He moved a few figures. "Too bad they're now surrounded and the shield is helpless. The leader will have to stand alone."

"He's a leader. Different rules, he's never alone." Jazz looked up after his next move of bringing the shield into a safer zone. "In the end the two arms are just pieces too, and they can be sacrificed."

"And so they are," agreed Prowl and attacked, obliterating first the two pieces, and then the whole board of Jazz's defence.

Jazz sighed and fell back into the chair. "I wish I could win once."

Prowl stood and started packing the game. "You would, if you ever fought seriously."

"I do fight seriously!"

Prowl only looked at him, completely relaxed. "You don't." He turned towards the watching Enforcers. "Stungun, was it? Shall I give you the game?"

Howlback stepped forward. "I'll take it."

Ironhide tensed for an astrosecond. She was far too close to Prowl whose Praxian form hid the vicious combat expert far too good. But nothing happened. The game changed hands and Jazz stepped next to his lover. 

"Time to go," said the ex-spy, as if they were just visiting a party. "We've already been hanging around here too long."

Ironhide nodded and sent the message towards the unit. "Your hands, please."

Stungun and Howlback handcuffed their hands behind them, while they stood just there. Their calmness started to freak Ironhide a bit out. Shouldn't they be angry? Or sad? Anything? "Do you know what you're charged with?"

"Sure," answered Jazz, ignoring the fact that the investigation had been done in secret with trying to keep them in the dark as best they could. Obviously, they had failed. "But ya can repeat it."

Ironhide nodded to Stungun, who took out a data pad: "Prowl and Jazz, now both citizens of Praxus, formerly SIC and TIC of the Autobot army among various other positions and titles. You are hereby accused of direct murder in over a hundred cases and torture in over 50 cases of prisoners, mindwipes in six cases, the bombing of Vos and its neutral citizens, manipulating Prime with wrong information, systematically starving out the Decepticons, technology theft from allies, killing allies in 26 cases and the abandonment of allies in four cases."

All three enforcers were looking for a reaction. Anything. But they just stood there as if they had expected all this. As of all of this was old news. In a way to them it was.  
Ironhide felt sick.

"Journalists have appeared," warned Howlback suddenly and looked uncertainly at her boss.

Stungun, his arms full with the book files, groaned. 

That was the last thing they needed. Journalists meant publicity, meant attention and maybe protests from fanatical Autobots. Every further investigation would be so much more difficult. But to hide them was impossible now and against the new open information policy of Prime. He looked towards Prowl and Jazz. Should they go through the journalists or not? He wasn't sure.

Jazz gave him a reassuring look. "Just lead us through them, 'hide. Doesn't make a diff'rence. Not to us. Can't avoid the public forev'r." 

Next to him Prowl nodded. "Do your job and they will see justice and a functional legal system."

And Ironhide remembered why he had followed these two mechs into bloody battles and hopeless situations, into war and death and horror and eventually into peace. Even now, shackled and bound as they were, they had the ability to let him do the right thing. Just why had they themselves done the wrong thing so often?

He took both of them by their arms, unsure if it was a gesture of force or reassurance.

"Let's go."

Together they stepped outside the house into a flurry of camera flashes.


	2. Sunflare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great War is only a memory now, yet far from being forgotten. Instead of enjoying the new peace, Prowl and Jazz are accused of the worst war crimes and have to fight in a trial for spark and honour, while behind the scene a master plan is entering its last stages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: Starfire201 - again thank you.
> 
> Universe: Till all are one  
> Continuation: G1, AU  
> Rating: G
> 
> The work is already nearly complete on my harddrive. Aftermath will have 11 chapters all in all.  
> But I'll probably add several oneshots. And maybe later another big story, that starts at the end of the Great War.
> 
> 3: Trypticon // 4: Blaster // 5: Ravage // 6: Optimus Prime // 7: Judge Tyrest // 8: Mirage // 9: Ratchet //10: Bluestreak // Epilogue

2\. Sunflare

 

Sunflare withstood the overwhelming desire to check his appearance at least once again. He knew he looked fine. Not too shiny, but clean with expert detailing as proper for a lawyer. This morning, he had even waxed his white and blue wings with the expensive polish his sparker had gifted him with on his graduation orn. Now, he had only to appear confident, do his job, make a few new contacts and then hopefully, this was his ticket to a big career. It wasn't as if everybot could claim to have had the Prowl and Jazz as their clients. He smiled and turned the last corner to the police headquarters of Iacon.

And stopped abruptly. Nearly a hundred mechs stood screaming in front of the gate, waving shields and banners. On the side, various camera bots were recording the whole scene and a reporter was even standing there and interviewing passerby. Sunflare rebooted his optics. Had he missed something? Sure, he hadn't looked up the news channel this orn, instead preferring to read again through the Basic Law, too nervous to do anything else, but this? This looked big.

He took a deep breath and started walking again. He had a job to do and this wasn't his problem. He only had to get past them. Somehow. As he got slowly nearer, he could make out what the angry crowd was chanting: "Let them go!" Maybe it wasn't the best idea to get nearer. What if they didn't like Seekers? Many still saw a Seeker as synonymous with Decepticons. What if they didn't like lawyers?

"Excuse me," said a voice behind him. "Are you Sunflare, the lawyer?"

He flinched and abruptly turned around, ready to punch his maybe-attacker. A tall grey bot who proudly showed off an Enforcer sign on his breast plate stood a few paces away from him, with a hand on his hip, near his weapon. The Enforcer's lips twitched in badly hidden amusement and hot embarrassment welled up in Sunflare.

"Ah, yes, that's me. And you are?"

"My designation is Stungun." He turned and gave a wave with his hand. "Please follow me. We saw you nearing through the cameras and at the moment it's not advisable to use the front gate. I'll take you to a different entrance."

"Oh, thank you." Relieved, Sunflare followed him into a narrow and easily overlooked side alley, where they stopped before an old door. Stungun put his hand on it, and a thin sheet of metal slid aside to reveal a scanner.

"Officer Stungun acknowledged," said the metallic voice of an AI. "Code?"

The Enforcer rattled the code off and they entered a badly lit hallway that soon descended steeply. The corridor was narrow and low and definitely under the ground, and that meant it was a place were no Seeker was meant to be. Suddenly, he remembered every single horror story of being trapped that his creators had told him, especially the one of the long entrapment of his carrier, and his wings twitched uncontrollably. He was not afraid. Just a bit nervous. Right.

Stungun sent him a worried look and said: "The tunnel isn't long. I'm sorry that this became necessary. Had we known that you were a Seeker, we would have cleared an airpath for you."

Sunflare tried to smile. "No, no, it's alright. It's nice to walk sometimes."

It wasn't as if he could expect that they would clear an airpath for every unimportant lawyer that came along.

"I suppose. Still, I have to say it's impressive how fast you were able to come." Stungun stopped in front of the door and activated another scanner. "Of course with them as your clients and considering the situation, we should have expected nothing less."

Sunflare could feel his tank tightening. What situation? "Fast?"

The door opened and they stepped out of the tunnel into the Enforcer headquarters, where pale yellow hallways were buzzing with activity. All the Enforcers who passed them seemed to be in a hurry, barely greeting Stungun and giving Sunflare nothing more than a curios glance.

Stungun asked in slight puzzlement: "Yes, aren't you the lawyer of Prowl and Jazz?"

"Yes, I am." And if pride was a sin, he would be struck down that very moment. "But I'm not sure if five orns can be considered particularly fast."

"Five orns?" repeated the Enforcer slowly. "But they called you less then four joors ago."

"Eh, no? I'm sure I would have noticed that, I had my communicator on high alert, of course. They contacted me five orns ago and said they would need my consultation today. Said that it was important to be on time..." Sunflare slowly trailed off, when the Enforcer began to walk much faster. "Is everything all right?"

"No. Are you sure that they only contacted you five orns ago?"

"Yes."

"By Primus' shiny aft, they tricked us!" cursed the Enforcer and nearly started to run.

Doors and gangs passed, until they reached an orange door like dozens of others and Stungun stormed in without knocking. Sunflare entered at a much more moderate pace into an office with three desks and a huge table in the middle, which was full of datapads and small information screens. Around the table stood three other Enforcers who had stopped their previous discussion and looked at their colleague.

Sunflares spark stopped for a moment as he recognized the big and red warrior frame on the right – Ironhide, another Autobot hero of the war, once bodyguard of Prime himself and now the head of all the Enforcers. What was he doing here? Surely his missed call couldn't be this important?

But he had to accept that it was, when Stungun opened his mouth:

"They tricked us! They didn't use their call earlier to inform their lawyer. Sunflare said that they contacted him already five orns ago!"

The sleek femme growled, to Sunflare's shock, while Ironhide just sighed, "I guess we should have expected something like this."

The last Enforcer looked at their table and frowned. "Five orns ago, are you sure?"

Sunflare gulped as every optic in the room was on him. "Yes..."

He wouldn't forget that orn. He had been ecstatic, that someone like Prowl and Jazz trusted him enough to hire him. Primus, he had celebrated with his friends and even called his creators.

"How very, very interesting..."

"Interesting, Nightbeat?" snarled the femme. "This isn't interesting, but a catastrophe! We have a slagging traitor who gave them information. Five orns ago, only a handful mechs knew about this!"

Nightbeat shook his head: "Not so few mechs, Howlback. We had to ask around, opened sealed archives... many bots might have noticed something."

"Something!" spat Howlback and started pacing. "Maybe. But not the exact information on which orn we'll capture them and into which headquarters we'll be bringing them!" Into which headquarters Sunflare had to come.

"The headquarters was probably easy to guess. This one has the most secure Enforcer cells on Cybertron," said Stungun and crossed his arms. "So we brought them here."

"Primus," said Howlback. "Don't you all get it? Five orns ago, even we didn't know when we would get the order of Prime and the United Council on when to take them in."

This got worse and worse. First the mob, which he now supposed was demanding the freedom of Jazz and Prowl, then Ironhide himself was here, his own clients had possibly manipulated the Enforcers, installed traitors and now the Prime and the slagging United Council had issued the capture order personally. Why were the rulers of Cybertron interested in a pair of architects, even if they were war heroes? What in Primus' name was going on?

Ironhide shrugged. "It was to be expected that they still have excellent connections to politics."

"Still..." said Howlback, but Ironhide made a hand wave that shut her up.

"More important is the call that was supposed to go to their lawyer. Did we follow it?"

"No," admitted Stungun after consulting an information screen. "It was made from a communication device in our headquarters as is standard procedure and an officer entered the number for Jazz. We never had to spy on ourselves before."

Ironhide shook his head, bemused. "Jazz is one of the best hackers Cybertron has ever seen. To change a number is sparkling's play for him." He looked at his subordinates. "Nightbeat, you were with them then, right? Did you hear what was said?"

"Yes. It was a normal lawyer call. It was only the why, where and when, and nothing more."

"No names, no anything?"

Nightbeat hesitated, glanced for a second at the Seeker who tried his best to disappear into the corner, and then said: "The only name was Sunflare. But if it wasn't Sunflare who was called..."

"Then all this was planned long before," said Howlback with cold anger.

"Please, keep calm." Ironhide sighed. "Nightbeat, try to recover as much as possible of that call from your memory drives. Howlback, I want you to speak with the technicians to see if the call can be traced somehow. Sunflare..." The Seeker shrank a bit more. "Despite everything, you're their lawyer. Would you please come with me? Your clients are expecting you."

The seeker nodded, but instead of feeling delight, it now felt more like entering the cave of Unicron himself. This wasn't how he had imagined this case, not by a long shot.  
Again he walked through the long hallways with an Enforcer by his side, just that the greetings now were much more polite. The power of might and respect, he supposed. Sunflare had nearly stopped at the shield that had proclaimed that they now had reached 'Section C' of the holding cells. What in the Allspark's endless creation were they doing in a section that was only for the worst of the worst? For truly dangerous and insane murderers?

Ironhide opened a heavy door to the section after two scans and entering a code and they stepped into a long corridor. Every few steps they had to stop again and complete another security measure. It was nearly ridiculous, but Sunflare didn't dare to say anything. Ironhide was too grim, and the two bots he would meet soon had already proven that all these security measures didn't stop them from doing... something.

"You're young, right, Sunflare? One of the new generation?"

New generation, the peace generation, the generation after the long long war. The old bots called it a privilege, but Sunflare sometimes hated that label. It made them seem younger and some fools always saw them as mere younglings. As if you were only an adult with energon on your hands.

"Yes."

Ironhide sighed deep and long. "Kid, I know I shouldn't say this... but those two were and are my friends. Even with all the crimes they have committed, I'm sure they never wanted to do something bad, you know?" Sunflare didn't, but nodded anyway. "I guess what I want to say is that whatever they're planning, they probably don't want to harm you, okay?"

The word 'probably' wasn't reassuring. Not by a long shot. Still, Sunflare appreciated it."Thanks." The last laser grid vanished and they reached another massive door.

"Ironhide, would you mind... telling me what their supposed crimes are?"

The surprise on Ironhide's face was telling. "You don't know?"

The Seeker nearly winced. "No."

The metal gave a low groan as Ironhide opened manually opened the cell door. "Then you'd better ask them that yourself. Good luck."

Sunflare felt a big hand on his wings that nearly shoved him into the cell, then the door fell shut behind him and he was trapped.

"Ya're Sunflare, right?" said a friendly voice.

Sunflare tried to calm his nervously dancing spark, looked up from the floor, and nodded once, in what he hoped was at least a halfway confident manner. The speaker was an average sized black and white bot with a distinctive visor only a few paces away from him, sitting at a table playing a boardgame. Jazz, whispered his processor. At the other side of the table was a Praxian with the same finish, wings hanging utterly relax low on his back. That had to be Prowl, the second of the duo.

"Nice to meet ya. Don't ya want to sit down? They even gave us three chairs here. A fourth one and we would live in luxury." Jazz gave an easy laugh and Prowl's wings twitched in amusement.

Sunflare copied the twitch, more out of politeness than anything else, and took the offer, all the while trying to look around discreetly. It wasn't a bad cell, as far as his knowledge of cells went. It had no window, but the light was bright and very high above. Besides the table and the chairs, the cell held two berths and a few datapads strewn carelessly across one of them. Were they only using one? As expected, there were no cameras or microphones as it was illegal to record a meeting between a lawyer and the accused.

"So, what do you know about the whole situation by now, Sunflare?"

He really, really should have watched the news channel this morning. But how could he have expected this? "Nothing. No one has told me anything."

Prowl, for the first time, seemed to really focus on him. Suddenly, Sunflare understood how the winged mech, who usually and literally wore his emotions on his back, had gotten the nickname 'drone'. His face betrayed nothing and even those elegant wings were extremely still. "Really? We had expected otherwise."

Sunflare wanted to vanish. Already he had disappointed his clients. "Sorry..."

"Don't be, 'Flare. We'll just explain it to ya."

Jazz patted one of his wings, and Sunflare felt a small amount of surprise as he realised that Jazz did it right. Like a Praxian or a Seeker, he patted the upper points, which were the most impersonal points of the wings. Most groundframes didn't even know enough to realise there was this gesture, did it wrong with too much or too little force or didn't do it at all, because their culture was less... about touching and emotions.

His wing twitched in a gesture of thanks and Jazz smiled. Fluent in wing-language then. With a Praxian mate, maybe even bonded, not such a big surprise, but a pleasant one. The first good one this orn.

"Thank you... Maybe, we can start with what you're accused of."

What could they have done? Thievery? Maybe a stalker broke in and they killed him? Did they hire assassins to kill someone? But what he then heard, surpassed his worst nightmares. The list was long and each crime was worse than the previous one.

"But...but..." He looked at them in shock. It was impossible that these two mechs, these two heroes, should be accused of such atrocities. "That's... I can't... I mean, I've only been a lawyer for a vorn. I can't help you in the biggest trial of the last millennia!" He looked at them helplessly. "I don't know why you chose me, but surely you got the wrong lawyer."

By Prima's spark, they didn't need him, or even simply one lawyer, they needed a whole army of lawyers and the luck of Primus to get out of this alive.

"Oh, I'm sure we didn't." Jazz's visor flashed for a second in the light. "You're Sunflare, right? 432 vorns old, living in southeast Iacon, favourite restaurant a small café called 'Goodie's Love'. You graduated Summa Cum Laude from your academy, are interested in history, genius, Seeker, one of the best fliers on the whole planet and in love with Turnaround, but afraid to tell your creators, because he's no flier. Personally, I like Turnaround. You've got taste."

Sunflare felt a completely new horror inside of him.

"Furthermore," said Prowl from the other side. "You're the creation of a Decepticon and a Neutral, which is one of the few things your creators didn't change as they took on their new identities. And this fact means means that we can be sure not to be accused of using our reputation or manipulating you."

He froze. Impossible. They shouldn't, couldn't know this. His creators had gone to great pains to hide that they ever had a sparkling. "My creators...?"

"Are Starscream and Skyfire,” completed Jazz as he calmly leaned back into his chair.

"How...?"

"Anyway," said Prowl. "You can't back out now. You have already signed the contract."

It was true. He had signed it without a second thought. "But..."

There had to be a way out. Some way out of the contract, out of the room and... his thoughts always came back to the fact that they knew who his creators were. That Starscream was his sparker. Starscream, the most hated Seeker in history, who was supposed to have been dead for many vorns. If they made this knowledge public, it could mean his ruin and his creators violent death...

"As I already said, don't worry, Sunflare." Jazz smiled, but this time it gave no comfort to the Seeker. "This is your ticket to a big career. Your chance to show everyone, that a Seeker and the creation of a Decepticon can be a wonderful lawyer."

With cold certainty, Sunflare realized that they knew him somehow. Knew his dreams, his love, his creators, his whole life. He stared at them, captured in a storm of emotions and slowly accepted that he had to see this through. Whatever this was. He shuttered his optics, defragmented his whole processor and with a clear mind looked at them again.

"So, I'm your lawyer. Your only lawyer."

"Yep."

"I'm inexperienced, without any reputation and have secrets in my past."

"Yep."

"You want me anyway."

"We hand picked you from hundreds of possibilities," said Prowl and from him, Sunflare didn't believe the words to be an exaggeration for one astrosecond. "So, yes."

"Why? Why me?" He hated the quiet desperation in his voice and that his wings trembled.

"We need somebot who will do his job, is good at it, and could be trusted," explained Prowl with a flat voice, but his wings emphasized the last word. "Additionally, we didn't want to take a former Autobot or someone who owned us in any way, because it would have been considered as an attempt to use our former positions for our gain. You fulfill all this and more."

He wasn't sure how to take the praise, so he was quiet for a long moment. "And now? I guess you don't need me for consultation." Heck, he could probably consult them. He was completely out of his depth here.

"Now? We'll explain what you will do."

And he would do it. As long as it wasn't illegal, he would do it exactly as they said. They were his clients and he was their lawyer. It wasn't consultation, but he was hired to help them anyway. His honour and own desire for greatness bound him as securely to their side as any unsaid threat.

He had been expertly manipulated.


	3. Trypticon

3\. Trypticon

 

Trypticon, weapon of terror and destruction during the war, sign of justice and security after the war. Few could have imagined the Decepticon would go peacefully back into his original function – to be a city – and yet here he was. Sitting proudly on Luna 2, holding the high security prison as well as the Halls of Justice, also called the High Courts. 

Fortress Maximus stood on one of the many balconies and enjoyed the impressive sight of the massive silhouette against the black of the space, the lights that glittered warmly, the towers and spires that rose high into the sky, the elegant bridges that spanned across the sections, the transparent sky domes that laid scattered across the whole city. 

::Maximus, incoming transport,:: a deep voice warned suddenly over his one comm line that was always open.

He glanced towards the planet Cybertron rising on the horizon and indeed noticed several small lights drawing closer. ::Thank you, Trypticon. I'll welcome them.::

As was his duty as the warden of Trypticon, his friend and manager. During the war, he had been responsible for the prison planet Garrus-9. It had been a peaceful job compared to many others, but it had held its own horrors to work with: criminals and the insane every single orn. After the war, people had finally looked at the Garrus prison planets and scrapped all but two of them. Instead, every prisoner was required to attend sessions with psychologists and codemasters (before, it had been deemed a waste of resources as every single soldier had needed them), which made it possible that most of the less dangerous prisoners could, slowly and with much supervision, be returned to society. It had made Fortress Maximus glad to witness this – even as it cost him his job.

Dark orns had followed, until Smokescreen had appeared before his run-down apartment door with the job offer to become the partner of Trypticon. Trypticon of all monsters! But he had had nothing to lose and Smokescreen had been very good at convincing him. Now, vorns later, he looked back to it as one of the best decisions of his life.  
By the time he stepped onto the landing field, the guards with the new prisoners had already disembarked and the shuttle was taking off again with a quickstart manoeuvre and vanishing into space. Maximus frowned when he saw an entire Seeker squadron circling them above. He had known that heavy security was needed, yet to see such a massive presence of the military, of Seekers, sat uneasily with him. 

As he neared, he noticed that none of the guards joked or even smiled. Instead, a special unit of the Enforcers stood there, tensely, with their weapons drawn as if expecting an attack at any moment. 

His contact mech differed only in the fact that she stood in front of them and wasn't glancing back at the prisoners at all. He stepped towards her with a friendly smile: "Welcome to Trypticon. My designation is Fortress Maximus. I'm the warden." 

"Howlback. These are my mechs." She nodded to the guards. "No problems so far on the transport."

For a split astrosecond, she seemed relieved. Maximus could understand it, as he had seen part of the extensive plans to move the prisoners securely. From rescue attempts of fanatic ex-Autobots, to attempts at revenge, to escape attempts of the very dangerous prisoners, everything had been considered and planned for.

The femme looked over the empty landing field coldly. "You're prepared?"

"Of course." He sent a silent question to Trypticon anyway and got a positive answer. "If you'll follow me, please?"

They did, and as they entered Trypticon, Maximus felt pent-up tension vanish that he hadn't even been aware of. Here, they were in Trypticon's and his domain. Here, every corridor held weapons and drones ready to fight. Here, energy shields and traps would stop any attack.

"You're not looking at them," said Howlback next to him.

Maximus nearly flinched. It was true. 

The Enforcer watched him warily. "You were an Autobot." Not a question, just a statement. Was it that obvious? "Were you close?"

"No, not really." He vented for a few cycles. "It's only... My position was directly under them. No military chain, just - they ordered, I obeyed. I never asked who they sent to Garrus-9." He had trusted them completely. And wasn't that a terrifying thought? Here he had thought he had managed to survive the war without committing atrocities and now...

"I see," said Howlback slowly. "Don't let them fool you, they're dangerous."

He had already known that. He looked back at the two black and whites, at Jazz and Prowl walking surrounded by no less then twenty mechs ready to shoot at the slightest provocation, and yet they were utterly relaxed. Jazz even went so far to lean over to Prowl and to say something that made the former tactician smile.

Prisoners in their situation shouldn't be so relaxed. His well-honed instincts wailed that something was wrong, but his trained optics saw nothing. The Enforcers and he had thought about everything. He looked straight ahead once more.

The rest of the walk to the cell was in silence, their heavy steps echoing through the bright halls. Maximus remembered how the hallways had been dark and dirty when he had arrived, evidence of the sorry state of Trypticon. It made him proud to know that his friend now had the energy and will to keep even the smallest corner of himself in an impeccable condition.

"Here it is." Before them, the cell door opened on its own, as had all the doors previously. "Your new home."

Without hesitation, the two former Autobot officers stepped inside. Jazz whistled. "Nice."

It was. A bit surprised, Maximus looked around the room and noticed that it was more a small apartment than a cell. It held two berths, a couch with a small table, a shelf with several data pads, an energon dispenser and even a terminal with computer games.

::Trypticon?:: he asked hastily. ::That's not a standard cell.::

For the first time in vorns, he received no answer. Next to him, Howlback frowned and stalked over to the terminal without another word. "This better have no outside connection."

Jazz chuckled, amused, while Prowl just went over to the shelf. 

"It has no connection at all," rumbled Trypticon's voice through the halls and buildings, startling all but Maximus, who was more relieved than anything. It was rare for the cityformer to speak with outsiders, but sometimes he chose to. "It only contains several games and music files."

Jazz's visor flashed warmly. "Really? Thank ya, Trypti!"

Howlback, whose blaster had heated up, relaxed. "I see." She walked out of the cell. "I hope the highest security measures have been taken?"

For a moment, Maximus expected Trypticon to answer, but the cityformer remained silent. It fell to the warden to handle the normal proceedings and bureaucracy. Cityformers, with their broad bodies and thousands of sensors that splintered their minds into thousands of strands, rarely had the patience and focus for it.

Maximus didn't mind this part of his function. "Of course. Do you wish to see the files?"

Howlback nodded. "Send them to my terminal." She winked at the two guards, who then unloaded a few datapads and a game on the table out of the cell. "Prowl, Jazz, your first court hearing has been scheduled in two orns. Your lawyer will be allowed to visit you at any time. Do you have questions?"

Jazz fell on the couch. "Nah, thank ya, Howlback, Ah'm fine. What 'bout ya, Prowler?"

The Praxian's wings flicked. "My designation is Prowl, Jazz." The annoyance in his voice was more playful than anything and vanished completely within the next sentence. "And I would like to know if it's a public hearing or not."

"Public," was the short answer.

Jazz grinned. "Told ya."

Prowl walked to the couch and sat next to him, wings spreading wide. Maximus thought suddenly that they looked a bit like a bonded pair in their own home. "There was the distinct possibility that this would not be the case."

"For ya, ev'ry possibility is distinct, as long as ya' can calculate it." Jazz winked at the group that was standing in the hall. "Close the door, will ya? It's impolite ta stare."

Before anyone could answer, Trypticon heeded the request and closed the door. Howlback huffed frustrated. "Those..." She forced herself to calm down. "Fortress Maximus, thank you for your hospitality. Those two are now Trypticon's and your responsibility. I wish you good luck."

Maximus had the feeling that he might need it. "Thank you. Shall I escort you back...?"

"No. We'll find the way." She turned and walked back the way they had come. "We'll see you at the trial."

The guards of the special unit followed her and then Maximus was alone. With a sigh, he walked back to the tower in the middle of Trypticon that held his office and quarters. He couldn't forget the cell. Cityformers thought differently than most people. A strong sign of how they felt about their inhabitants was the location and furniture of their rooms. To give two prisoners such a room... but they had been Autobots and Trypticon a Decepticon. It didn't fit. In the end, he asked.

::Trypticon, would you explain the cell to me?::

For a few seconds the cityformer didn't answer, then came the nearly sheepish rumble: ::They deserved this.::

Maximus felt dread. ::Why?::

This time the silence was even longer. When Trypticon spoke again, it was slow as if every word had to be forced: ::I never told you... because I wanted to forget. I was damaged in the war, and afterwards I floated in space. Hurting and alone.:: The last word had additional glyphs that showed a far deeper pain than anything before. 

::Trypticon, my friend, my partner...:: Maximus tried to comfort, horrified by the revelation that Trypticon had been abandoned in space. Cityformers were not built to be alone. They were built for a constant hustling and bustling life. The darkness and eternal silence in space must have pushed Trypticon to the edge of sanity and maybe beyond. It explained so much.

::I was found,:: continued the giant. ::By Autobots. I expected a swift death and welcomed it. But instead they sent a notice to their superior, Prowl. He commed me. With a choice.:: A tremble went through the city.

::He didn't force you into something, right?:: he asked worriedly. Sure, Prowl was an Autobot, but with the latest revelations, anything was possible.

Trypticons next glyph was a smile. ::No. He said that he didn't want to deactivate me. That I could choose between just floating on, or being repaired by the Autobots on that ship. And that the Autobots would stay with me, until I reached Cybertron. He promised I wouldn't be...::

::Alone,:: finished Maximus for him, not for the first time wishing he could hug the cityformer. Instead, all he could do was to put a hand on the wall and caress it. It was more symbolic than anything. He could see what Prowl had done, he had forced his friend to live. Cruel, yes, but Maximus was thankful for it.

::Yes. The thought of just floating on was horrible enough to agree to anything. And not harming them was a small price.:: Trypticon sounded surer now, more certain and less emotional. It went against a cityformer's programming anyway to harm inhabitants. And mechs that repaired a cityformer were classified as inhabitants nearly by default.  
Maximus leaned against the wall. ::I see. So you came back to Cybertron. And then?::

::Prowl and Jazz visited me and asked me what I wanted.:: The incredulity Trypticon had then felt was even now present in every glyph. No wonder, cityformers were rarely asked for their opinion about their own fate and Trypticon had been one of the most feared Decepticons as well. ::I didn't know. Ionly knew that I didn't want to deactivate any more. They gave me options.::

::What kind of options?::

::Many. But the thought of becoming a normal city again, to touch this cursed planet again... I couldn't.:: The glyphs were jagged, broken, just like a part of the spark of the giant. The killing on the battlefield had changed Trypticon into an angry, hateful being, that had hated itself the most. Cityformers were part of the defence of Cybertron, but in the Great War they were forced to fight against citizens, inhabitants, and each other. It had went against everything they were. ::So they offered that I remain on the second moon and become a prison. It was acceptable. I was close and far enough to Cybertron, had but few inhabitants and they were all controlled. I was safe.::

Maximus understood, as they had talked about it many times before. Especially as the warden tried and succeeded in persuading the cityformer to also host the High Courts of Cybertron. He pressed his head against the wall, shuttering his optics. ::You are always safe as long as I am there.:: 

It was a lie and both knew it, but it was the thought that counted. The: I protect you as well as I can. For a moment the hallway heated up and warm wind brushed Maximus' armour. It made him smile.

::I was content for a time. Then they visited again and said I needed a warden for the paperwork and because it would make me more 'stable'.:: The last word was one single angry glyph and Maximus chuckled. His friend surely had raged and howled against this. ::I said no. Instead of arguing, they gave me your file.::

::What?:: asked the warden startled. ::My...?::

::Yes.:: Trypticon seemed amused. ::They said they had already sent someone to recruit you and that you needed a prison to function.::

::But...:: Maximus vented. What Trypticon said could be true. Smokescreen had been Prowl's student and the warden had always wondered why Smokescreen of all mechs suddenly cared about him. ::It was functioning very well, ::he finally protested weakly.

::You were not.:: There were no additional defining glyphs to the words. Trypticon was serious. ::The thought that they would sent someone to 'fix' me, was unbearable. But you... I thought that maybe we could help each other out. You needed a prison, I needed a warden. Purely selfish reasons, just as the Decepticons had taught me.::

Maximus laughed, as if a cityformer could ever be entirely selfish. If they were, they would be ruling Cybertron. ::You big bad Decepticon,:: he muttered affectionately. ::I'm happy you gave me a chance.::

::I am too. And I'm thankful that I got the chance for this life with you... ::

Trypticon slipped into silence and Maximus' smile slowly vanished as he realised the implications of the talk with Trypticon. From rescue missions of fanatic ex-Autobots, to revenge attempts of former Decepticons, to escape schemes of the very dangerous prisoners, everything had been considered and planned for.

Everything, but a prison that didn't want to hold its prisoners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Blaster
> 
> I would love to read your opinion on Trypticon. He was never planned to be like this or to even have a chapter, but he simply demanded it.


	4. Blaster

4\. Blaster

 

"Please, just one sentence!"

Blaster gritted his denta and pushed the femme aside, back into the crowd. He could already see his destination, which promised safety from these paparazzi.

"Do you believe that they are guilty?" cried another bot and pushed against him.

"No comment!" 

Another appeared in his way. "What do you think about your best friend now?"

"Blaster!"

A short run later and he had finally reached the checkpoint, closely pursued by the journalists and reporters and plain, curious mechs. He flashed the impressively tall security mech his identification badge that proved him to be part of one of the only four news teams allowed inside. The guard nodded, and thankfully moved to block the way of the pursuers with grim determination. 

Blaster didn't hesitate an astrosecond longer and stepped through the door which had opened automatically. His trained optics spotted various defence mechanisms in the hallway and around the door with ease. Idly, he wondered how many more were hidden from him. Trypticon always had had the reputation of a fortress, something that hadn't changed in their new era of peace. This, coupled with the soldier of the Cybertronian Defence Force (CDF for short), provided Blaster now with the first feeling of safety for orns.  
Slowly, his racing systems calmed and he started walking down the plain hallway.

For Blaster, it had all started with the Breaking News report that had suddenly been shown on every channel and network Cybertron possessed. He hadn't been able to believe it at first. In anger at how people dared to accuse Prowl and Jazz like this and trembling with deep worry, he had tried to contact them, but it was futile. Then, he had done the next best thing and lost no further time in contacting Ironhide. It had been a sobering conversation which made clear the charges weren't fabricated and that they had gone willingly with the Enforcers.

In that joor, a small world had crumbled for Blaster. He had considered Jazz as his best friend, family even. He would've given his life for both of them without a second thought. He had placed his trust in them, obeyed and killed and walked to the pit and out – all in the belief that they were doing the right thing. 

The charges were as far apart from the right thing as possible. How didn't anyone notice? Worse, had he helped without knowing? Why hadn't they tried to escape?

He wasn't the only one with questions. After the Great War, he had become a famous and beloved DJ, his known appearance became now a curse. Suddenly, everywhere he went mechs remembered that he was Jazz's best friend and had been the Communication Officer of the Autobots and surely he knew something...? He didn't, was even useless as a witness, but many mechs didn't believe him, and some fans felt personally betrayed. They called him 'monster', painted his house with defamations and assaulted him on the street. 

Unable to stand the attacks and the journalists hounding him without respite, he left his luxurious apartment in Polyhex and went into hiding. Until this orn.

"Welcome, Blaster," greeted the cityformer's deep voice suddenly. Blaster shuddered as the vibrations hit his sensitive microphones and music speakers. "You're allowed to witness the trial from observation room eight. I will guide you. Please, do not leave the path."

"Thanks, Trypticon." For a moment he felt the slight wonder he always did when he interacted with former Decepticons. It made the peace all the more precious.

On the floor in front of him, several yellow arrows lit up. He followed them through hallways, each one full with nervous mechs, busy officials carrying datapads, important looking politicians tending to their social nets and dozens of security mechs from the CDF, Enforcers of various city states and private companies. It was obvious that despite the impressive security Trypticon offered, no one wanted to take any risks. 

It was probably sensible, especially if one knew about Prowl and Jazz's more successful plans in the Great War. And yet... a large part of Blaster just wished all the guards away, so that they would be able to escape. 

“You have reached observation room eight,” announced Trypticon. “I wish you a nice orn.”

“You as well,” was Blaster's automatic answer as he turned to the door onto which the number eight was etched.  
It opened nearly silently and he stepped onto a soft silver floor made of expensive mesh. Behind him the door slid shut and the noise and stress fell away to blissful silence and the wonderful fact of being alone. Being safe from all the questions. He shuttered his optics for a moment, enjoying it, preparing for what was to come.

So far, he had managed to avoid all and every journalist. Not any more. He straightened and onlined his optics again. At least it would be on his terms.

He found himself in a small observation room used by journalists to observe the trials. With fast steps, he crossed the cabin to the far side wall that was completely transparent. Beneath it spread the infamous Hall of Justice in which the High Court judged only the worst of crimes and highest political cases.

This was the place in which guilt and innocence was decided once and for all. 

Only mechs expedient to an ongoing trial were allowed to come here. Until now, Blaster had never been one of them and as a result had seen the hall only on TV stations. It was an impressive sight, even now, as it lay still empty and quiet before him. 

Golden glyphs on the white wall proclaimed their highest laws: All are the same. Punishment must fit the crime. Truth is the base of all. Speak and be heard. And many more.  
Only the whole wall on the right had no decorations at all as it was formed by Aequitas, the super computer from Garrus-9 that calculated guilt, ensuring complete neutrality in any trial. In front of it on a platform was a table with three empty chairs, where the three judges sat. A bit farther to the left came again two platforms with a broad passageway between them: assigned to the seating of the prosecution and defence. Rows upon rows of seats for journalists, witnesses, family, sometimes politicians and Enforcers filled the remaining space. Without a doubt, the hall would be filled to the brim the moment the trial began.  
It was the only fitting place for Prowl and Jazz to be heard at.

Behind him, the door opened and closed again. Blaster probably wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been waiting for it.

"Hello, Blaster. You're early," said a friendly voice. 

Blaster turned and greeted the silver-white mech warmly. “Hello, Rook. I wanted to avoid most of the crowds. It didn't work out as well as I hoped." He grimaced slightly. "How did you fare?"

Rook shrugged with an easy smile. "Quite well. Just slipped through. Maybe they want the opinion of just another journalist less than the one from Jazz's best friend?"

"Maybe." 

Blaster doubted that. It was more likely that they simply hadn't recognised the plain frame in time. Rook wasn't just any journalist, he was a legend among them, a living example of all a journalist should be and the most trusted voice of truth their race possessed. A reputation won hard through utterly fearless reportages directly from the battlefield in the Great War. He had been one of the very few that Autobots, Decepticons and neutrals alike had welcomed. With good reason, as he had never broadcasted in his show 'Around Cybertron' anything than the absolute truth. During the vorns of peace though, he had withdrawn from politics and instead produced some documentaries – all of them excellent. 

So, when Rook had found Blaster hiding at a friend's home and offered to moderate the trial live together with him, while answering questions about Jazz and Prowl... Blaster hadn't been able to say no. Not only had he dreamed of working with Rook, but it was also the only way he could become involved at all, to make sure his words wouldn't be twisted and maybe to help Jazz. 

He would've loved to talk to his friend about his opinion of Blaster doing this, but it was impossible. No visits or calls were allowed. Which was a pity; with all the secret codes that Blaster still remembered from the war, he was sure they would be able to talk about anything without anyone being wiser. 

"They got you, right?" asked Rook, concerned, while uploading data on the wall that doubled as one giant screen. "Told them anything?"

"Of course not." As if he would jeopardize this for a few vultures just looking to fleece his words for a few thousands more viewers.

"Great!" Rook glanced down into the hall and his gaze sharpened. "The first witnesses and soldiers are entering, it'll begin soon. We should start now. Ready?"

"Sure." Hopefully.

Thankfully, they didn't need a camera crew or anything here, the room itself and Trypticon took over these mundane tasks. Rook was experienced with the system and introduced the show without any hesitation or trouble.

"And for this reason, I want to welcome my guest and co-moderator for this orn – Blaster!"

He nodded, more than aware that nearly every Cybertronian in existence was watching him. Normally, they just heard his music. The thought that they all saw and listened directly to him was, for a moment, nearly overwhelming. 

"Hello Rook,” he forced himself to say.

"Hello as well. It's wonderful that you agreed to be here." Rook smiled and it even looked genuine. Maybe it was. "What do think we can expect this orn from Prowl and Jazz?"  
Blaster blinked as he really thought over the question and remembered a dozens of situations in the war. Far too aware of the klicks draining away while he thought, he still had to smile as he realised what the only possible answer was: 

"Uh... well... they're unpredictable, always have been. So, I guess a few surprises."

"Surprises in a trial?" Rook seemed intrigued. "It'll at least keep up the suspense. What about the fear of their escape?" He pointed at the hall beneath them, that was now filled with everyone but the main players. "Down there I see at least twenty CDF soldiers alone, surrounding this hall and providing security is nearly a whole battalion, not to mention Trypticon and the fact that we're on a moon. Isn't this over the top?"

Blaster slowly felt more sure. "I don't think so. Most forget that these two aren't among the ten most dangerous Cybertronians, because they're such great fighters. No, their strength is finding the weakness of their opponent." He looked down into the hall. Dozens of memory paths with examples opened up. "And every system, every mech has a weakness."

Rook's optics dimmed for a moment as he recognised the truth in these words. "So you're one of the mechs that think they could escape this orn?"

There were many mechs who believed exactly that or were even preparing to break them out at the smallest sign that Prowl and Jazz wanted to be saved. Fans and believers were openly protesting in the streets, wearing black and white as a declaration of their loyalty. It would have been be ridiculous, if it weren't so many. But so far all was peaceful.

Blaster hesitated, knowing that with his next words he could push these believers into violent action. Then he shook his head. "They aren't magicians." 

"But...?"

"But..." He sighed. This thought had kept him from recharging in the last orns, and kept him busy even as his own fans assaulted him in the street. Thinking it all over and over, he always came to the same conclusion. "I believe they want to be here. They're both paranoid to a certain extent, and both love gathering information, love knowing..." He narrowed his optics as down in the hall the lawyers of the prosecution walked it. "I'm nearly certain that they knew what would happen long before the Enforcers walked to their house."

The journalist was silent for a moment. Obviously, he hadn't expected this answer, and if even Rook hadn't, then their viewers were now stunned. 

Down there, the doors opened again and soldiers holding gleaming chains marched in and behind them...

"Rook," said Blaster urgently. "They're here."

The silver-white mech followed his gaze, then changed over comm lines the camera setting. 

Blaster felt as if the world should stop as he finally saw his old friend and his bondmate. The hall fell deadly quiet, and not a bot other than the slow marching armed soldiers and their prisoners dared moved any more. Prowl and Jazz entered next to each other, chained at ankles and wrists and with their heads held high in pride and confidence. They looked as they always had, black and white, solid, trustworthy. Relief that they were alright replaced the deep worry he had carried around with him, only then to feel hurt by their sameness. How could the monsters accused of these horrible charges be his friends and commanders? Shouldn't he see their evil now that he knew? 

But all he saw was Jazz and Prowl in chains, looking calm and confident as if they were escorted by a honour guard and not paraded around in chains as two of the worst criminals to ever touch Cybertron.

"Blaster, what can you tell us about them...?" asked Rook quietly next to him.

The former Communications Officer reined his feelings in and gave the cameras the needed orders to zoom at them even more. "Do you see Prowl's doorwings? Their position is not very high or low, just neutral. But they're not stiff, which means he isn't worried, or nervous. Oh, and did you see how Jazz stepped nearer to Prowl?"

"Yes. Fear?"

A reasonable guess. Sadly, totally wrong. "No," said Blaster with conviction. "During the war if they were afraid they would always form a united front, ready to defend themselves from an attack at any time. Jazz is too close for that to Prowl."

Rook hummed in agreement. "But what else...?"

"He's telling Prowl something. And... yes, there. This small wing flutter." Blaster set the camera on repeat for the two small scenes.

"Amusement", concluded Rook who had a passing-familiarity with wing-language. "A joke, then."

"Yes." Blaster chuckled, feeling suddenly now a lot less worried about his friend. It felt so surreal to be here at their trial, when he still possessed so many positive memories of them. "Jazz always tells Prowl jokes, when he thinks his bondmate is worrying too much over nothing. Things like the punishment schedule for pranksters, or if during inventory a wrench was found missing..."

Rook gave him an sceptical glance. "This situation is hardly the same."

Down there, Prowl now leaned towards his bondmate's audios and whispered some short words that made Jazz's visor a few shades lighter. Blaster sighed as he remembered the many moments of Prowl's dry humour – sometimes appropriate, sometimes not. The timing had never mattered to Jazz; he had always smiled.

"To ya, yes. But to them? Who knows?"

Everyone had reached their seats. It was nearly ridiculous to see the tightly packed platform of the prosecution with nearly twenty mechs, and Prowl and Jazz's side with one single lawyer, a Seeker in white and blue.

"I've never seen this lawyer before," thought Blaster out aloud. "Is he good?"

Rook actually laughed. "Who knows? His designation is Sunflare. He's fresh from the academy, and the creation of the senator Sunburst of Vos with his bondmate Skylight. My connections told me he was contracted five orns before Jazz and Prowl were arrested. Some call it the luckiest contract in history."

"Lucky", repeated Blaster flatly. "I stopped believing in chance when I met them."

A bell rang through the hall and the three judges stood. The one in the middle was the highest judicial authority, an old green and yellow mech with the impressive wings of old Praxian elite. Lord High Judge Tyrest, whose vote would be the deciding one. On either either side of him were the Lower Judges who would be able to block Lord Tyrest's verdict together, if they both had doubts. The only other one with this power was the super computer Aequitas.

Lord High Judge Tyrest began the trial with ancient words of peace, truth and honour, followed by the introduction of himself, the Lower Judges and the lawyers. Sunflare managed to look just as composed as the armada of older and more experienced lawyers on the other side. 

Blaster decided that he liked the small seeker.

Tyrest took a datapad from his table and activated it: "Defendants Prowl and Jazz as you have confirmed to have been bondmates for the entire time period in which the charges fall, you'll be expected to plead the same as you will be punished the same. You can plead -"

"Guilty", Jazz interrupted with a grin.

Not a few mouths in the hall fell open. Blaster couldn't hide a groan. He knew that grin, it translated into only one thing: mischief.

Lord High Judge Tyrest looked up startled and then frowned: "Guilty or innocent."

The former TIC didn't seem impressed. "Just guilty. It's faster."

There were some deep vents in the hall, as slowly, mechs understood what Jazz was saying. He wanted to plead guilty – on all charges. Blaster muttered helplessly, "Primus, Jazz...", not knowing if he should laugh or scream.

The High Judge wasn't moved as easily. With cool optics he said: "Nevertheless the procedural rules demand that you will plead on every case separately. Let's begin."

They did. One atrocious crime after another was listed, one horror after another revealed, and every time reacted the crowd of witnesses with shock and dismay. The defendants, though, less so. It was more than customary that the accused showed distress or confusion, be it a true emotion or just to help their case. Not this time. No matter what they were accused of, Prowl was sitting unmoving as a statue, while his bondmate was busy throwing every chance of winning their case into a black hole with an expression close to boredom:  
"Guilty. Again guilty. Guilty. Guilty, must I repeat myself? Guilty."

"They're burying themselves," whispered Rook, amazed.

Blaster nodded grimly, less surprised than most. "Yes. Just further proof that they want to be here."

"But why?" asked the journalist and crossed his arms. "Normally one can gain nothing by prison or public execution."

"They have to gain something," insisted Blaster. Another cold, plausible thought touched his spark. He shuddered. "Or execution is exactly what they want..."

"Wanting deactivation?" Rook thought it over while he watched the proceedings below. "If they really committed these crimes, is it possible they'll feel guilty enough to want death?"

Astroseconds went past, only interrupted by another charge and another plead of 'guilty'. 

"Yes", he finally whispered. His spark twisted. Bright, laughing Jazz suicidal? "If they somehow saw themselves forced to make these decisions and regretted them ever since..."

Rook narrowed his optics, then turned and called up several data on the wall. "It also would be the very best moment to do so. Crime rates low, economy strong, no unrest since vorns ago for the first time since the Great War. Just peace. And, more important, stable peace."

Blaster looked at the dozens colourful statistics on the wall, but didn't quite understand. "Stable peace?"

"Yes." Rook sighed. "This is a trial of heroes, of former admired leaders. It puts stress onto any society, which can lead to another civil war or at least massive riots. If you want to have such a trial as soon as possible after the Great War without risking peace, now is the ideal moment."

Blaster looked down to his friend, who now seemed so far and foreign. "Sounds like them."

The journalist frowned with an excited glimmer in his optics. This was the mech that had crossed battlefields, negotiated with Optimus Prime and Megatron themselves, dived down into the darkest pits of their race for nothing but the chance to find out the truth. "But that also means that they not only knew about the charges against them, they also decided when the evidence against them would be found."

Which would have taken a massive amount of influence, political skill and knowledge.

"And it still sounds like them," commented Blaster with a wry smile.

He shouldn't stand here and hope that it was like that, but he did. He wished for his friends that they were here out of their own free will, and not because of the chains and soldiers.

Beneath them, Jazz continued their suicidal approach to the charges: "Guilty. Maybe I can just make a card and raise it every time? No? Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guil- Moment." Jazz blinked, stopping for a moment. "'cuse me, can ya repeat that?"

The Lord High Judge Tyrest nodded, for a moment seeming nearly relieved that the farce was over. "Charge 56. The starvation of 235 neutrals in sector D-T3-2342 on planet Urix..."

Obviously puzzled, Jazz turned to Prowl. "Can't remember that one. Did ya order this?"

"No." Prowl answered fast and clinically precise. "Are they sure they have the right sector?"

Jazz looked to the judge: "Hey, check the sector."

"It's the right one," growled Lord High Judge Tyrest. 

"Strange," commented Jazz with a smile. "I can only remember starving people in sector T-J2-23423." 

Next to him the seeker lawyer twitched, then held still again. But his wide optics spoke the same emotions that everyone else had.

"And sector E-U8-523432, don't forget this one," added Prowl with a wing flutter. 

Above them, Blaster's helmet met the transparent wall with a loud clang. “They have gone mad. Completely crazy with bonkers on top.”

"Yeah..." Jazz tapped his index finger against his lips. "So innocent?"

"Innocent", confirmed Prowl. 

They both smiled and looked at the judge.

Lord High Judge Tyrest was quiet for a moment, marking it down, then he asked the prosecution: "Are these sectors in the charges?" 

The lawyers, that had already in near panic looked through all and everything, shook their helmets. "Sector T-J2-23423 is missing."

"I see." Lord Tyrest sighed. "Please add this to the charges after this hearing."

And the list continued.

"That was unusual", commented Rook neutrally. "It seems they only want to be blamed for specific crimes."

"Something despite the amount of depravity must tie the crimes together," concluded Blaster, his curiosity piqued. This could be the key to understanding this trial. "The question is: just what?"

“Maybe they just want to be blamed for crimes they committed.” The words seemed cold, but Rook's voice vibrated with barely contained excitement. The glimmer had turned into a fervency. “Or maybe it's something else...” A sharp smile. “I will find out.”

In this, Blaster trusted Rook fully.


	5. Ravage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbeat stared in utter surprise at his guest. "Howlback," he repeated flatly. "I don't know what is harder to believe - that you two are friends or that she speaks positively of anyone, least of all me." His thoughts backed the words and Ravage found himself amused.

 

 

Chapter 5: Ravage

 

There were many photos on the wall. Artistically arranged to form a harmonious picture, each held a unique tale.

He knew some of these stories. The three mechs grinning in front of a ship - a tragedy with only one survivor. A bit down and to the left, the blue and yellow survivor was looking at something organic - the discovery of another sentient and intelligent organic race. Even further to the left was again the same mech, this time arm in arm with another mech, obviously in love - the non-existent data on the other mech was more than enough to date this photo into the Golden Age and to know that the unnamed lover didn't survive the following war.

He stretched out on the long couch, enjoying its softness. Lying on the back, he put his hands above his head, tried to touch the small pillow with his toes and let his dark frame shimmer in the low lighting. If someone had watched him, they would've called him sensual - but he was alone and so it was only pure enjoyment of himself and the couch.

Finding a perfect position, he turned his red optics back to the wall.

The wall was a treasure chest for him, full of data and precious moments that let him sneak into another one's life. The apartment around him was bland in comparison, even though its tasteful furniture also whispered of a strong and decisive character.

Yet, nothing compared to this wall. Between the photos of the mech hang ones without any living beings at all. They were just of places with straight lines and light and shadow. They, too, had their tales, but they also highlighted what their owner thought of as beautiful.

His optics kept lingering on those pictures, committing them to his own collection of photos, while his data banks provided names and dates.

Suddenly, a noise disturbed the peace. He growled as his silence became fragile - and shattered as fast footsteps of a heavy mech neared through the hallway of the apartment. He was hit by fleeting thoughts and waves of anger.

A yellow and dark-blue mech appeared in the doorway of the living room, a blaster in his hand, blue visor blazing in anger. In reality, he was a lot more impressive than in his photos, where he was always smiling, thought Ravage neutrally. The mech stopped dead the moment he discovered him lounging on the couch.

"Ravage!" the mech snarled and subspaced the gun. "When I requested a meeting with you, I expected you to come to the HQ or maybe that you would suggest a cafe. Not that you would break into my own apartment and sent me a message with the glyphs 'I'm waiting'!"

Ravage smiled coolly. Not bothering to stand up, or to even sit up, he shrugged.

_Did you really think I would walk through the public to meet you, Nightbeat?_

Nightbeat flinched. As they all did, when they heard Ravage's thoughts in their own processors for the first time. Then usually came the spike of fear, covered by quick, hot anger and a strong dislike towards Ravage. Having watched the cycle a hundred of times, it was no wonder he avoided the public – and so far meeting any Enforcer personally.

"I thought you would at least warn me before entering - or wait for me!" Nightbeat snapped annoyed.

Ravage blinked, surprised. No fear, no anger, no comment at all about the telepathic answer. Remarkable. Had Nightbeat known before about Ravage's habit not to speak out loud or was he just that adaptable?

He couldn't resist and gently touched the mind of the Enforcer. So many thoughts, so much curiosity and tiredness, but not a single negative code line about Ravage's abilities. The telepath's smile from before became a bit warmer.

Meanwhile, Nightbeat had crossed the room towards the several energon dispensers in the corner and selected a few.

"Have you already helped yourself, too?" he asked with what could've been further annoyance, but the feel of his mind said he had already calmed.

_No._

Breaking and entering was one thing in Ravage's mind. A younglinghood of war had taught him that to steal energon, something that could mean the other bot would starve, was another thing entirely.

Nightbeat nodded. "Well then, do you want some? I have high-grade, low-grade, sweet, acidic and bitter."

_Sweet... please._

"As you wish." Nightbeat skilfully mixed their energon, then he sat down on the couch next to Ravage's pedes, wordlessly handing his guest the cube.

He nodded in thanks, taking a cautious sip, carefully checking the energon with special sensors. No poison. Not that he expected it here, but old habits die hard, and for some they died harder.

"I'm surprised that you came at all," Nightbeat finally said, watching Ravage from the corner of his visor. "You're not exactly famous for heeding requests such as this."

That was true enough. Ravage was as anti-social as Soundwave, which was saying it all. It was less of a choice though, than a result of being a telepath.

_I always try to help the Enforcers,_ Ravage defended himself.

The Enforcer and special detective laughed softly. "Yes. But we're not fool enough to believe you tell us everything. Or sometimes anything at all."

Also true. Ravage wondered how much Nightbeat had researched him.

_I tell you as much as you need to know,_ he explained. _And as a telepath I know many things that are better left forgotten._

Things he often wished to forget himself.

Nightbeat gave him a measuring look and for an exciting moment his thoughts splintered into a thousand possibilities - before he nodded. "You're probably right." He took a deep gulp of his cube. "So, why did you come at all? This is a big enough mess without adding you to it."

It wasn't meant as an insult. Instead, Nightbeat's feelings were of amusement, weariness and a faint sarcastic humour. It strangely appealed to the former Decepticon and Ravage found himself relaxing more.

_Your request came with very good references,_ he admitted.

Nightbeat's helmet snapped towards him. Nervousness, no, apprehension flared. "References? This was an unofficial request. No one should've known..."

Ravage held up a hand, and with one graceful move, sat up. He still had to look up a bit to meet the others visor as he assured him: _No one does know of this meeting._

The wave of feelings calmed. "Then how..."

There weren't many mechs on Cybertron whose opinion could influence him. Soundwave was one, his siblings sometimes the others. And then there was...

_Howlback always speaks highly of you,_ Ravage said.

Nightbeat stared in utter surprise at his guest. "Howlback," he repeated flatly. "I don't know what is harder to believe - that you two are friends or that she speaks positively of anyone, least of all me."

His thoughts backed the words and Ravage found himself amused.

_Howlback and I have been friends for a long time. Once, we shared a rather uncommon frame._

"Ah, yes, I remember," said Nightbeat. "You both were four-legged cassetticons, right?"

_Yes._

It was just a frameclass to Nightbeat, nothing more. The sharp relief of his was a bit startling. Many had compared Ravage to drones or, even more degrading, organics over the vorns. Many were still doing it to other cassettes, despite Soundwave's campaigns of social equality.

Thanks to his talents, Ravage had always been far too aware of those thoughts and it had not helped that he was holding the dubious honour of being the cassette that had needed the longest time to reach a normal mechframe ever.

Even during the Golden Age he had been one of the slowest maturing cassettes, with trouble to control his inherited talent of telepathy. Within the war he had stopped maturing at all as his emotional centre was busy not to be crushed beneath dark thoughts and violent emotions. Worse, he had just been mature enough to see the problems it caused Soundwave to keep them all fuelled and well. But too dependent to upgrade and be his own mech, he had resigned to his fate of a telepathic mech-animal, that would never be more.

And then, he had met Howlback. Proud Howlback, who refused to give up even as her creator and tape deck died. Strong Howlback, who carved her way through the ranks of the Decepticons alone. Stubborn Howlback, who refused his help and to trust him for vorns.

She showed him that it was Ravage's decision alone if he was a burden or not.

Nightbeat grinned. "So, are you two more than friends?"

_Never,_ was Ravage sharp answer, which made Nightbeat wince.

"Wow, emotional theme for you." Nightbeat raised his hands. "No need to say more. I can go without a headache this orn - work is bad enough at the moment!"

Ravage nodded, forcing himself to be calm again.

_About your work... I know you're the lead detective in the case of Prowl and Jazz. Am I right to assume that you called me because of them?_

Anything playful left the Enforcer immediately. "Yes," he answered tiredly. "You were on different sides of the war, but I suspect that you did investigate many of the incidences because they involved Decepticon victims. Also, surely you spied on them and tried to find out anything important..." He sighed. "In short, I want to know what you did notice or heard about regarding them."

Ravage tilted his head. _You already have all this information. Soundwave sent you the files decaorns ago._

"He did," confirmed Nightbeat. "And as far as our databanks tell us, his statements are all true." He stood up and brought his empty cube back to the energon dispenser. "There are just a few small details that made me look closer."

Ravage followed his every movement, admiring the sudden sureness of them.

_Those details would be?_

He threw the cube into the trash and turned, crossing his arms. "First, Soundwave's statement should have included a few things that he didn't put into the records. Your creator is famous for his secretiveness, I can't imagine him updating thousands of files with nothing but the truth."

The former cassetticon found himself nodding. Everyone who had ever met Soundwave would know that the mech chose his words and information carefully. Just as Ravage did.

"Second," continued Nightbeat. "There are the witnesses. Yes, there are dozens, but none of them really saw them pull the trigger. But even more telling is the small fact that some of the mechs who should be the prime witnesses are missing. Most important, their adoptive sparkling Bluestreak hasn't been found so far. And believe me, we've searched for him."

Nightbeat's thoughts were elegant, complex and strangely captivating. Again, Ravage found himself nodding.

_Maybe Bluestreak deactivated,_ he said, knowing the Praxian hadn't. During Starscream's reign they had been partners, maybe even friends, taking orders from only three mechs. He was sure that he would've been invited to the melting of him.

"In peace time? Without Prowl or Jazz saying anything?" Nightbeat sounded sceptical. "No, I bet Bluestreak has gone underground. There were rumours about problems like high-grade, the wrong crowd of mechs, crimes, but nothing specific because - and that's interesting - the mechs he used to meet mostly have vanished, too."

Ravage smiled, just watching Nightbeat as he talked himself into a rage. It was less about the mechs, than about the information, the puzzle itself.

_How peculiar,_ he commented, just to keep the Enforcer talking.

"I thought so too _._ So I did my job. I started to dig around and I found out that while the proof, the files, the witnesses all look ironclad, it isn't. Some cases are nearly completely circumstantial!"

_Not really, though,_ argued Ravage, extending his hand so that his claws rested on the couch. Despite finally upgrading into a mech-frame after Howlback encouraged him, he hadn't found the desire to leave everything behind. _Aequitas would never convict them if it was circumstantial, yet it did in 14 cases so far._

Nightbeat grinned without joy. "Yes, because Aequitas and the judges think that the files we found on Teletraan, the various archives and even in Vector Sigma are all true."

_I guess they aren't,_ said Ravage with a smile. It was strange. Rarely had he smiled as often as during this conversation. Maybe it was the exciting topic.

The Enforcer shrugged. "I can't prove anything, yet. But after the war Prowl and Jazz had a very, very high security clearance despite the fact that Starscream ruled. So high, that they could look into and change everything." His gaze fixed his guest. "Am I right?"

It was a piece of information that an interested mech could look up in nearly any history archive, buried between tons of other unimportant data. Ravage nodded, clearly remembering the time when everything had changed and yet so few.

Nightbeat didn't move, but his emotions showed a raw satisfaction for a moment, before he was speaking again: "The thing now is, I wasn't able to find even the slightest hint that they lost this access. They stepped down from titles, from positions, but not once were they officially taken from the lists of authorized mechs to change the files. Funnily enough, their designations are not on a single list anymore, but then in some cases they never were as they maintained those lists." He smiled. "It's a small thing. Really. But I think it might be the key."

Ravage raised optics ridge, faking scepticism. In reality, he was impressed. This mech had come farther than any other of the thousands of mechs trying to figure out Prowl and Jazz's motives.

_What key?_ asked Ravage, but he knew.

"Isn't it obvious? That they had access to and changed the files, until they got the blame for everything. They had vorns to perfect this. Vorns to look up the witnesses, vorns to talk or bribe everyone involved. Maybe they even performed a minor hack on the more stubborn ones." He paused and then shook his head, as the next words sounded bitter: "The rest of us all are now just the actors on their stage."

For a moment, the other one wasn't sure what to say. After the silence between them became awkward he settled on a weak:

_You're a good Enforcer, Nightbeat._

The detective didn't take it the wrong way. "Thank you." Then, he walked over, back to Ravage and stopped in front of the smaller mech. "So, are my theories wrong?"

This was dangerous territory. He should say "yes", stand up and walk out through the door. Pit, he should've never came here. But he was and now he felt the desire to tell Nightbeat everything he knew, which wasn't much anyway, just to see the glimmer of excitement in his visor again. Ravage tried to crush the desire ruthlessly.

_You are aware that while my creator has left the secret service, I'm still part of it?_ he asked instead, stalling for time.

"Yes, of course." Nightbeat's visor lightened up and his emotions were amused, but highly alert. "But isn't that even further reason to help me? I admit I know barely more than that, besides that you're one of the most gifted hackers..." He paused. "And now that you're a telepath. Maybe that is connected."

Ravage laughed, he couldn't help himself.

_If it were connected, Rumble and Frenzy would hack all and everything they come across._ His light thoughts danced into the processor of Nightbeat. At the curious look of the Enforcer, he explained: _They share a permanent emotional link with each other. It makes them quite gifted on this scale._

"As gifted as you?" asked the Enforcer curiously.

_No._ Ravage looked away, back to the pictures. _No one is as good as I. Even Soundwave is not. He can only receive thoughts and emotions, while I..._

"You can send them, too."

_Yes._

Nightbeat was quiet for a klick, and Ravage felt the old trepidation he had long ago tucked away inside himself. Mechs feared telepaths. Feared that they knew too much, knew secrets, used them. It was painfully justified, too. As if to prove it, Ravage couldn't resist any more and touched the mind of the Enforcer again, looking for his thoughts.

He found them easily. They were just as clear and beautiful as all the others before. But even more stunning was the lack of fear. Instead there was only burning curiosity and the quicksilver speed of an intelligent processor.

"Soundwave's speech pattern is strange, and you do not seem to speak at all," said Nightbeat softly. "Is that the price?"

_Yes._

It was the easy answer, quick and dirty. Maybe true. But it also could be that Ravage during his slow and stopped ageing, just learned to talk using his gift, while his codes for speech withered, until it was too late. For now, the easy answer was enough.

"Nothing is for free, right?" Nightbeat's curiosity died down a bit as his determination made its comeback. "What about my theories?"

Ravage hesitated once again, not understanding where this strange desire to share his knowledge with this mech came from. Had he been too isolated in the last decaorns? He measured Nightbeat, staring at the mech until he twitched nervously.

_I can't tell you much,_ Ravage answered with a soft purr. _My creator, Soundwave doesn't share everything with me._

Nightbeat frowned. "But you know something, right?"

_Yes._ Ravage unfolded himself and rose from the couch, taking a step nearer to Nightbeat who still sat. Their height difference was so great that Ravage was still barely looking down.

_I can tell you this: My creator and Prowl and Jazz rarely saw optic to optic about anything, but when they did... things happened._

"During the war. Right?"

Ravage tilted his head with a smile.

_During and after it._

Nightbeat's visor and processor flashed with interest. "And about what things did they see optic to optic?"

Ravage shrugged.

_Sparklings. Cybertron. They all wanted to see the next generation to grew up happy and in peace._

A grimace. "That's not a very big similarity. Every Cybertronian shares this!"

The Enforcer truly believed this. Ravage had the sudden astonishing realisation of having found innocence in a former Autobot, who was also an Enforcer. Who investigated the worst crimes and atrocities. Ravage wanted to weep, craving that innocence for himself.

Nightbeat didn't notice, too caught up in analysing every of Ravage's words. "I mean, okay, so that means they did talk to each other about some things, right? Didn't hate each other... that does help actually. What did you mean by things?"

_Things. There is a reason those three were the most feared mechs on Cybertron._

And he would say no more. Nightbeat seemed to realise this as he changed the theme. "What else can you tell me?"

He could tell this mech so many things. Of secrets, dark and better left forgotten. But they wouldn't help here, and he refused to destroy any of the past successful plans of his creator or Prowl and Jazz with saying anything too specific. But there was one memory, that had puzzled himself for vorns:

_Several vorns after Starscream's sacrifice and death, Jazz waited for me on one of my rounds around our house. I sought the solace, the quiet. In those orns I was... not good. Mechs thought we had lost protection and targeted us. Especially me, as they thought me a cyberanimal, a telepath, a spy, a traitor..._

Ravage took a deep breath, stopping the word flood. There had been so many reasons why they had targeted and hated him. He had seen those reasons in their processors, seen himself in their thoughts, how ugly, terrifying, monstrous he was. It had broken him more than the slurs and thrown metalrocks had ever done.

Nightbeat looked at him in understanding, a hand raised as if to comfort, but so uncertain if the comfort was wanted.

The former cassetticon straightened. Nightbeat's hand fell away.

_Jazz stood there in the alley. Alone. First I thought him another attacker, but instead... he offered me a chance._

He was sure that the Enforcer had heard some of the things which he hadn't mentioned. The fast and brutal fight, the paranoia, the fear when he was on his back with an energy dagger on his neck and a clear view of who he had just attacked.

Nightbeat though just raised an optic ridge, focused on the immediate information and not on the potential humiliation of Ravage.

"A chance?" he asked.

_Yes. He said nothing more and I declined. Jazz smiled and walked away._

Nightbeat looked as puzzled as if someone had just told him that he had won the Clown of the Year Award. "That was all?"

_Yes._

"Strange."

_Very,_ agreed Ravage, remembering how he himself had tried to find meaning in the few sentences exchanged. _But my creator... when I came home, he was already waiting at the door. And when I told him about Jazz, he said nothing. Instead he hugged me and..._

"And?"

This was intimate. More than anything else so far. Actually, Ravage suddenly realised he would prefer talking about interfacing in detail than to say the next words:

_...and all I could feel from him was relief and love._

"Nothing else? No thoughts to explain it?" Nightbeat sounded hopeful, and he was it, too.

Ravage gave him a look that said 'stupid' more than clearly.

_He's Soundwave._

Nightbeat sighed. "I suppose I can't expect anything else from Soundwave." _And his creation_ , his thoughts said, but there was no malice. "Any ideas who might know more?"

Did this mech really expect Ravage to point him into some direction? Yes. Yes, he did. He trusted Ravage of all mechs. The smaller mech stared at him and then shrugged:

_You could always ask the company 'Red Security'._

A deep sigh and a shake of the head. "I already did. But between Red Alert and Breakdown the paranoia level at that company is so high that they would only share information after a deep spark merge."

_Which you weren't willing to provide, I guess?_

"'Course not. Those two might be contagious."

They shared a grin.

It was a pity, though. Red Alert had always been the Autobot with the best idea about Prowl and Jazz's schemes. But then, if the two most paranoid mechs on the planet decided to found a security firm together, absurd paranoia was probably expected. Suddenly, Ravage remembered how those two had met - at a security conference after the war. They both had been in charge of security for the other side, which had been kind of a surprise in Breakdown's case. There had been rumours about orders... rumours that Soundwave hadn't investigated. At that time, Ravage had thought that his creator had just been too busy. Yet maybe...

No. Just no. Now he was becoming paranoid as well.

He stepped a bit back from Nightbeat. For a sparkbeat they both awkwardly waited for something, then Ravage forced himself to say:

_I think I told you all I knew. Until... then._

Until probably never.

Nightbeat hastily rose from the couch. "Until then," he smiled. "You really were a great help." He stopped and his thoughts became a chaos of indecision and emotions, then he blurted out: "Maybe I can keep your number to call you?"

Ravage blinked.

_Call me?_

Nightbeat's gaze turned to the floor and then to the wall. "Yes... for questions, maybe? We could meet in a café this time. Or I could invite you to an energon in my apartment again...?"

_Again_ , thought Ravage amused, and then suddenly realised the words. And their true meaning. And the honest, tender motivations behind them. Before he could even think about it more, he had smiled and sent his private comm number.

_Of course. Energon sounds good._

Two klicks later, he was on the floor and transformed into his old four-legged mode. He still hadn't managed to convince himself to upgrade all the way - his old altmode was just too comforting and grounding in moments just as these: When his spark spun too fast and his thoughts turned to possibilities and dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Optimus Prime. ^^


	6. Optimus Prime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus watches the trial on tv and gets a surprise visit during which the past is discussed.

 

6\. Optimus Prime

 

Guilt tore at Optimus' spark as he watched Rook and Blaster's newcast about the trial for the fifth orn in a row. Just like most of his people he wasn't able to look away, to miss even one second of it. It still seemed so unbelievable, impossible. How had he overlooked this? And Primus above, had they done these crimes in his name?

He couldn't count anymore how often lawyers or Enforcers had called him to confirm some data, to prove that they had or hadn't been somewhere. But never as a true witness. He had never seen them do something suspicious. They were good like that.

As the Prime, he would have been allowed to watch the trial live in the Hall of Justice anyway. He had considered it briefly, but the order to Ironhide to arrest them alone had hurt so much that the thought of attending seemed to be agony in itself. In fact, he noticed most Autobots seemed to have this problem, even those called on as witnesses. They entered the hall if they had to, and left in a hurry again.

The only exception was Blaster, who provided interesting insights and neutral, friendly commentary – a fact for which Optimus was very thankful. Somehow Blaster's interpretation made it all more bearable.

But not better.

Nothing could make this kind of betrayal better.

He checked his chronometer, then looked at the screen again. It was just a repeat of last orn's trial, now followed by a five orn break so that both sides could prepare and adjust their statements. Not that Prowl and Jazz's defense seemed to need adjustment, seeing as so far it was non-existent. Their young lawyer, Sunflare, was often very obviously frustrated, even as he did all the bureaucracy and gestures a lawyer was required to do. It was the only thing that brought a smile to Optimus' lips while watching the newscast.

The apartment door pinged, and with relief he ended the programme.

"Please come in, Bumblebee."

The younger mech stepped inside the living room. As one of the rare regular guests, he didn't give the small windows stretching from floor to the ceiling or the big painting of an organic world any glances. Two staircases led away into the area reserved for those closest to Optimus' spark, Elita-One, Ironhide, Magnus... Prowl and Jazz.

Quietly, Optimus contemplated that Bumblebee had earned that kind of trust as well, but so far no opportunity had arisen, and the last orns had shaken his world too much to offer it now.

"Hello, Optimus," greeted Bumblebee, none of the usual smiles gracing his face. "How are you?"

The concern was plain on the minibot's face. The automatic answer laid on Optimus' glossa, but it fell to ash as he realised that it would be nothing but a lie. Bumblebee deserved better. "I'll live. And you? It can't be easy to discuss it all with the United Council..."

The yellow bot's optics dimmed. "It isn't. Most are blaming Autobots, regardless of their own faction during the Great War. Some even want to take advantage of the situation..."

"Of course," muttered Optimus with distaste, drawing a slight smile out of Bumblebee. Even though the yellow bot had chosen a career in politics and become the senator of Iacon, he still didn't like the backstabbing and manoveuring in the back rooms. "Please tell me more. But first, take a seat and can I bring you anything?" His poor friend looked far too tired for this time of orn. Had he recharged at all?

"Mid-grade would be fantastic. The Council meeting was far longer than I expected." He sat down on the couch and watched as Optimus mixed the energon.

"Will they call upon me?" asked his former Autobot leader, worried.

As Prime he normally didn't concern himself with the ornly politics of the Council, something he was very thankful for. But important things, changes in their laws, big decisions, all these had to be brought before him for confirmation.

"I think not." Bumblebee took the energon cube with a smile. "It's mainly posturing. Jockeying for more power, influence and so on. But the first are already noticing that it's not working. The normal mechs do not want to blame an entire faction for the last war." He looked into the cube, and said quieter: "I think they do not even want to blame Prowl or Jazz. They are just asking why."

Which was the best they could expect under these circumstances. Thousands of mechs were already convinced that Prowl and Jazz victims of an corrupted system, while others were just as sure that they themselves were the corruption. Every time a verdict was spoken, the news channels also reported about demonstrations and small riots. Yet so far there had been no deactivations. Most citizens were still waiting and watching, creating an atmosphere ready to explode at the smallest infraction that would prove one side right.

Optimus took a seat across from the yellow bot, a cube in both servos. "Aren't we all asking that? I know that I am." Pain seared in his spark and for a moment he lost his words.

Bumblebee just nodded, his optics reflecting the same pain. "I as well. It simply doesn't fit. Jazz always has a reason and Prowl, Primus, he plans vorns in advance. What would they gain by those crimes?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all," answered Optimus tonelessly.

"Exactly! And I know that they don't enjoy the pain of others!" yelled Bumblebee. "This makes no sense! And worst of all, they do not defend themselves!"

Optimus reached out with his hand, but then faltered, uncertain if it would be welcomed. "Bumblebee, my friend..."

"It doesn't fit, it all doesn't fit! The Prowl and Jazz I knew would never..." The minibot vented in anger and then slumped against the couch. "I just don't understand." The words cracked with pain.

"No one does." Optimus looked to his window. "I've spoken with Ironhide, his Enforcers, the lawyers... even with Rung, the psychologist. They all agree that the crimes have happened and that there is always at least one piece of evidence that they have done it, but..."

Bumblebee leaned forward. "But?"

He struggled to find the right words to describe the frustration of those he had talked with. "But they always only find one or two. It disturbs them. Apparently, in an investigation once you've found the culprit and know where to search you find more and more evidence. Normally."

"Not this time, though," concluded the yellow senator and frowned. "I've already heard that the charges in many cases look thin. Mechs on the streets whisper they're fabricated. But if they are, why aren't they fighting them?"

"I don't know." Optimus stood and walked to the window, looking down at the gigantic seeker-statue in the plaza. "It's in moments like this I miss Starscream." He looked back in time to see Bumblebee's shocked expression and couldn't help but chuckle: "Don't be so surprised. Starscream might have had his bad sides, but even you can't deny that he always told the world exactly what he thought. Consequences and other opinions be damned."

Bumblebee shook his head amused. "That I can't deny. I'll never forget when he screamed at this one representative from Polyhex that his science project was utter slag and then proceeded to take it apart in front of the whole Council for five entire joors."

That had been indeed a sight and something Optimus enjoyed very much. "It had the desired effect that every single project the following vorn was more than reasonable."

Bumblebee allowed himself a smile. "It wasn't as if one found anyone willing to present a project that wasn't up to Starscream's high standards. But why are you missing our deactivated Emperor now?"

"Lord High Protector, please. He never held the title Emperor."

Bumblebee shoved the argument away with a wave of his servo. "But he had the power of one. So why?"

It was a good questions. In the Great War, Optimus had despised Starscream, the second in command of the Decepticons, a backstabbing screeching coward if there ever was one. He hadn't understood how anyone could follow him willingly. In the vorns after the Great War when they were forced to work together that had slowly changed, until he had grown to respect the flying menace. Had grown to like the spark that never backed down, always demanded perfection and tried – in his own way – to do the best for Cybertron.

"Bumblebee, could you imagine Starscream sitting here silently, while Prowl and Jazz are tried? I can't. He would scream his opinion out for everyone to be heard."

"I can assure you, that some bots and seekers are doing exactly that," answered Bumblebee with a wry smile. "My audios are still ringing from the statement of the senator of Vos."

"Yes, but not only that. He would also search for the truth, demand..." Optimus stopped and breathed for a moment. "He would act." And not be like him and sit around despairing, drowning in self-pity, while watching his friends being trialed.

"Optimus..." said Bumblebee softly. "He was a dictator."

"Yes." A shuddering body in his hands, warm energon spilling on his arms, optics laughing at his shock and disbelief. "A dictator and Decepticon that died to protect me from an assassin."

No one had expected it. Certainly the assassin in the crowd, blaster aimed at Optimus, didn't expect Starscream throwing himself before the Prime. Starscream had died in Optimus' arms, smiling, his last words an answer to Optimus' desperate whispered question of 'Why': "I'm your Lord High... Protector... fool..."

It was that moment that broke down the looming gap between Autobots and Decepticons once and for all. The changing moment when the peace became more than a temporary truce, and the new normality. It also was the moment when Starscream became a hero and finally managed to overshadow Megatron.

Starscream never had he shown brighter as in the moment of his death.

Bumblebee looked towards the picture of Earth on the wall, no doubt remembering the same scene. The same stunned moment, when everything changed.

In the ensuing silence, Optimus walked to the window and looked outside. Remembering Starscream, Prowl and Jazz, and them together. Remembering the only time he had felt this deep betrayal towards his two lieutenants before. "Only very few mechs know, Bumblebee, that I never wanted to sign the peace contract," he suddenly found himself saying.

He didn't turn to see the reaction, but the confused "You didn't?" told him all. Nearly all too well could he picture Bumblebee's surprised stiffening, his widening optics.

"I didn't," he confirmed without looking back. "We were on Earth and the war continued, until suddenly one orn Prowl and Jazz entered my office and put a datapad on my desk. They told me to read it. I did and was furious. It was the truce. I said that I would never sign a truce that required the Autobots to surrender and banned them from my office."

"I remember. Everyone wondered what they had done to make you that angry."

Optimus smiled grimly. "Now you know. At the beginning of the next orn they came back, and told me that the truce is the only chance for peace. On the fifth orn I asked them what they expected Megatron to do, to agree and suddenly become a fair Lord High Protector?" Even now he felt the cold realisation weighing on his spark for what came after. "They looked at each other, then at me and said that the truce was already signed. By them and Starscream."

A thump. Bumblebee had jumped up. "But – they ..."

"It was within their rights,"Optimus gently interrupted him. "They were allowed to sign contracts with the second and third in command of the other army, in this case Starscream and Shockwave."

Bumblebee walked up next to him, his hand brushing Optimus' left arm, then he looked outside as well. "I always thought that the truce came after Starscream and Shockwave killed Megatron."

It was was not only Bumblebee who had been told this, but every bot on Cybertron that hadn't been directly involved.

"No. They worked together because of the truce." Optimus sighed. "But I was so angry that they went behind my back, I tried to throw them out of my office. Instead, they gave me two lists."

"Typical Prowl," chuckled Bumblebee.

"Yes," agreed Optimus with a short burst of amusement. Prowl had always provided lists that rarely anyone of them had read. But Optimus had always kept them, until his office had looked cluttered and Prowl had given him disappointed glances while Jazz had grinned from behind his mate's back. "These lists, though, didn't just have numbers, but designations and probabilities... " He stopped. Still, he had trouble remembering that painful moment when he realised that it was over. That it all was over.

Bumblebee looked up at him, confusion and concern in his gentle blue optics. He truly was a good bot to the spark down. "Who would have died, if the war had continued?"

"Everyone," whispered Optimus quietly. The word weighed heavily between them, its dimensions nearly too big to grasp. He looked down at the seeker statue, wondering distractedly if Prowl and Jazz ever would get their own statues. They deserved it. Maybe. "That was the first list. It was a prediction that if the war continued, our race would exterminate itself."

The senator's optics brightened for a moment. "There had always been fatalistic rumours..."

"But this was proof. We were approaching the point of no return."

Bumblebee nodded, optics paling a bit. "And the other list?" he asked then.

"It was a list of who would die, if I refused and they acted anyway," explained Optimus. And if possible, this list had been an even more painful realisation.

"Wouldn't the war have continued on?" Bumblebee frowned. "Without your agreement the treaty would've been void, right?"

"Only if I had publically disagreed." He sighed, touching the cold window glass. It was soothing, but his memories still remained as raw as the centuries before. He remembered his shaking hands that held the data pad. His officers and friends in front of him, waiting with cold, determined optics. The moment that had put his own life into perspective. "But Prowl and Jazz never intended to give me any chance to do this. Had I disagreed in that breem in my office, I wouldn't have left it alive."

Bumblee gasped, freezing in complete surprise. "No..." he whispered. "You're Prime..."

"Which was probably the only reason they asked me at all." His optics darkened, still caught in the memory. "But Primes are ultimately replaceable, and they understood this. Even if I had forgotten this, Megatron was murdered only two orns later. I doubt that he ever was asked."

His friend said nothing for a long time. Optimus was glad for it, as it gave him the time to put his memories to rest again. Also, it meant that Bumblebee was thinking carefully, a trait that had appeared only in the last centuries as a senator. It made the minibot quieter, wiser and less rash to act. He had matured, and Optimus was satisfied to see him still maturing ever more. Some day in the future, this yellow bot might be one of the steady voices of justice and reason that led their race. Not yet. But he could see the potential.

Finally, the yellow bot straightened. "Did you agree because they threatened your life?"

There was something brittle about the question, as if something had been deeply shaken. It was the belief in an unfailing Prime. But for Bumblebee's growth to continue, that was necessary.

"No," he could answer truthfully, thankful for that small mercy. "What let me agree was the realisation that I was their friend, and they were mine. It would pain them to kill me and yet they were prepared to do it anyway. Because they saw no other chance to save us all."

Bumblebee's optics darkened in understanding. "It must have been difficult for them... And after realising this, you agreed?" Optimus nodded. "You trusted their assessment above your own. Couldn't you have agreed in the office and then publically told the opposite?"

He laughed softly, remembering the wild moment of him considering the same. "Yes, of course. But what would've happened then? I was not entirely blind, Bumblebee. There were many mechs who would've followed them out of loyalty and the promise of peace. It would've led to an internal war in which nearly all of the experts for security and assassination would've been on their side..." He smiled sharply. "Leaving me with brave, good-sparked, but foolish soldiers. I would've probably still died the orn after. And by the time a new Prime was chosen, while he would've had the loyalty of the troops needed to oppose them, it would've been too late."

Bumblebee sighed. "You were out of options."

"And out of arguments, besides my own hate for kneeling before Starscream," confessed Optimus softly, again looking down at the statue of the seeker. "They were right to force my hand in this matter. My pride was a good sacrifice for all of this."

For this glowing new Age of peace and prosperity.

Bumblebee touched his hand and smiled. "For all that it is worth, Optimus, I'm glad that the war is over." He stopped for a second, also looking down at the seeker that had given them so much grief once. "Thank you, for agreeing."

"Knowing what I know now, I would always agree to it again within a spark beat." He stopped for a moment and added: "Even now, I would always trust them again."

Bumblebee lowered his head. "Not only you."

They talked about many other, lighter things in the following joor. Not once did they mention Prowl, Jazz or the war. They were too painful subjects for now. But when Bumblebee rose, ready to go, he looked into the optics of his Prime once again and said:

"They led us through war and to peace. Maybe we should trust them in this as well."

"Maybe," answered the Prime with a sigh. He wished he could see them again, just one more time.

 


	7. High Judge Tyrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrest is old, very old and remembers two young sparks at the beginning of a long war... Now though, is not the time to remember. He has to judge said two sparks on their worst crimes, has to bring justice to Cybertron once more. Still, he's old and sees more than most.

 

7\. Tyrest

 

Tyrest stood in front of the Hall of Justice, contemplating if he really should walk in. It was a rhetorical question only, as his position as the Lord High Judge of Cybertron didn't allow him to turn away now.

Still, just once Tyrest wished he could.

On a sign of his, the grand doors to the Hall opened and they walked in, the two Lower Judges behind him. Every mech in the crowd stood in a silent show of respect to the law. Ignoring them, he slowly walked to his seat and with a sigh of relief sat down. His pistons became older with every vorn, and this trial was slowly but surely sapping all of his remaining strength.

He prayed to Primus that it would be over soon.

His optics wandered over the crowd of tense observers, the anxious witnesses of the last several orns, the focused lawyers and of course the accused – who as always looked very calm. As if the verdicts that were towering above their helmets didn't exist.

The bell rang and he stood up again with a hidden groan. The hall fell quiet as every single optic focused on him.

"Welcome, citizens, to the thirteenth orn of the trial of the bondmates Prowl and Jazz," he began, the words familiar by now. "May Primus be here with us in this orn and guide our words, until the truth shines in all of our sparks. May our sparks connect to each other, form a bond of siblings so this hall shall never be touched by war and peace reigns. Let honour be our path, mercy our guide and love our goal." He breathed for a moment, waiting for the words to echo in the hall, then he continued: "Let us all remember, in Primus' name, now and forever: _till all are one_."

The crowd answered and the ancient promise shook the hall: "Till all are one."

Tyrest knew the words the promise was repeated by the dozens of mechs outside of this hall, by the thousands that watched at home or in masses on the streets, some with loud confidence, some whispering it in quiet reverence. As always this knowledge gave him a rush of unity.

As the sound faded away, everyone sat down.

The first accusation of the orn went as the 54 accusations before. He read it, and the lawyers of the state highlighted the worst details and pleaded for a degree of penalty. More often than not, it was the highest possible one.

They did their job.

The other side, though... his optics wandered to the young seeker-lawyer again, who again and again went through the right motions, which amounted to barely more than to accept the sentence with dignity and to correct any and all bureaucratic mistakes of the opposing counsel.

Of which there were amusingly many.

Tyrest suspected that Sunflare's clients had forbidden him from doing his job properly. It said something about the young lawyer, that he tried to defend them as best as he could anyway – through the bureaucratic way, if he wasn't allowed to do it the normal one.

Case 55 was an ugly one. It told about experiments on an abandoned asteroid, dubious orders, many vanished victims and one spectacular explosion that destroyed all files and remaining mechs on said asteroid. Witnesses were rare, and the ones that spoke were in the end a mere supplier and a technician who had never stepped into the laboratories.

"Defendants Prowl and Jazz," he said, "would you please explain why you gave the order to destroy the asteroid without evacuating a single mech?"

Jazz didn't move, or raise his head from where he had rested it on the table. Coupled with the dimmed visor, it looked as if he had fallen into recharge. Tyrest doubted that. No one who had lived that long in the shadows would be capable of such a feat in a room with dozens of hostile bots present.

Prowl, on the other hand, was alert as always and shook his head. "No."

"Defendants, you are aware that any explanation would lower your sentence?" he asked for the 55th time. It got repetitive. He was missing the other trials with tears, emotions and surprises.

Prowl's mouth twitched. Maybe he had caught on to Tyrest's frustrations. "Yes, High Judge. We know."

The same answer as the 55 times before.

Looking back at his files, he could only sigh. They only had the records to prove that there hadn't been an evacuation. And besides the rumours there was nothing that spoke about horrifying experiments. Certainly, no victims had been found to speak up here and now.

"Defendants, are you saying you blew up the asteroid together with the research facilities in the full knowledge of how many mechs you would kill?"

Prowl folded his hands together. "Yes."

But for once Tyrest wouldn't back down that easily. He was the Judge. His goal was to find out the truth, and to apply the law, not to accept what he was told. "Did you consider an evacuation?" he asked, already aware of the answer.

After all, he knew them well.

When he had first met Prowl and Jazz, in the middle of the riots that would lead to so much more, he had seen the glimmer of greatness in their optics and took the time to talk to each of them for a breem.

Their second meeting was many vorns later. The war had been still young, and most had still believed in a quick end. Not Tyrest though and so he had tried to advertise the idea of a common set of standards, which both sides wouldn't breach. Far later, they became known as the Tyrest Accords. Prowl and Jazz had already been high-ranking officers and the glimmer had turned into a blaze. Tyrest had been horrified by their fanaticism and the resulting ruthlessness.

Over the course of the war, he met them every few decavorns in negotiations, meetings and even by chance, and saw these flames dimming, until only the sharp precise need of what had to be done was left. That had been the moment when he had feared them most. Feared that this need might stem from their former blind belief rather than facts. He had worried needlessly. They turned to knowledge as a guide, and transformed it into action and possibility.

It was a peculiar way to wisdom. Fast, but full of sacrifices and pain.

But as deep as they felt, as great as their wisdom had become, the old ruthlessness never left them again. Yet, they had never been hasty. They would consider all angles – and then decide.

"Yes," admitted Prowl slowly.

Tyrest nearly smiled – he had them! -, but instead he asked neutrally: "And what did you decide?"

Would he lie? Prowl abhorred lies, but he was far from above them. The Praxian didn't move for a long moment, in which Tyrest noticed that Jazz's visor got lighter. Bond-communication. Maybe he had upset them more than he had thought. Good.

Finally, Prowl gave Tyrest a slow nod. A show of respect to Tyrest: "We decided that the evacuation of the victims would be possible, but that they were in no condition at all to join the Autobot army. Or in any case willing to. As such they had no worth to us as Autobot soldiers and we disregarded any further plans of evacuation."

Truth, Tyrest thought with an internal shudder, while an outcry went through the hall. Or at least, it was partially the truth.

The evidence was here, the confessions, too. Despite his personal doubts, he was bound by the law. And the law was clear.

Four breems later, after a short discussion with the Lower Judges and the official test run of their verdict through the super-computer Aequitas, he rose to proclaim it:

"The court has decided! In case 55 against the Defendants Prowl and Jazz, they have been found guilty as charged. The sentence is spark-extraction for 24 vorns and a complete recoding of their morality sections of their personalities. So mote it be, till all are one."

And again the crowd answered.

Not that this was the actual sentence Prowl and Jazz would serve. It was common to trial every accusation apart, and in the end to let Aquetitas calculate a fitting one-time punishment for all the crimes as to not make it possible that a mech would labor into all eternity without learning anything and growing more and more bitter. They had learned from past mistakes.

It followed a short break of one breem for everyone. Tyrest remained sitting where he was, his frame didn't allow for unnecessary activities anymore.

Instead he chose to observe the many various mechs in the Hall, how they mingled and talked to each other, all so very excited and hopeful. Chief of them all, Sunflare who in every single break pulled out his datapads and studied them furiously – this time even more than usual. From the side, Prowl and Jazz were observing their lawyer with indulgent smiles.

Once again, Tyrest was painfully reminded of the fact that he was old. Old enough to look at the bondmates and their lawyer and to see mechlings and a sparkling playing at life. Old enough to know that this picture was utterly wrong. Even old enough that death had turned into a friend that hasn't visited in a far too long time. And yet would probably visit the two accused far too soon.

Now, most mechs thought that at some age one might stop caring. Tyrest would agree, if not for the fact that despite seeking objectivity in all, it never had happened to him. Instead he had begun to love the whole mess that his race was, full of life and possibilities, ever changing, always striving.

And while not two mechs were ever the same, he had learned to understand them and their view of the world. This was what made him such a good judge and and he liked to think that this also was the reason why no one had protested when he had been given the title of the Lord High Judge. A position which not only made him the highest judicial instance, but also made him one of the four pillars of the Prime – the four to decide if a Prime was fit to rule or not.

His gaze wandered to the hidden balconies above, knowing very well that they all were occupied and yet in none was their Prime. Optimus Prime had chosen so far to ignore the trials, beyond the hundreds of written witness statements he had given.

To see his friends and most trusted counsellors like this must have pained their leader immensely. Still, as much as he understood, the High Judge wished Optimus Prime had come. It would've sent a sign.

The break ended and Sunflare straightened in sudden obvious anxiety.

Tyrest looked down at case 56 and understood. Maybe, finally, he would hear a few new answers. "Charge 56. The starvation of 235 neutrals in sector D-T3-2342 on planet Urix. The Defendants have pleaded," he could feel the anxiety in the Hall skyrocketing,"innocent. Defendants, do you repeat your plea?"

"We do," said both with a smile.

As expected.

The lawyers of the opposing side listed the accusations in minute detail – and Sunflare started to take their evidence apart with a vigour that reminded Tyrest of an unleashed cybergator.

"There might be evidence the colony on Urix starved, but there is no proof at all that my clients are responsible for this!" argued Sunflare passionately.

The other lawyers weren't impressed by the retort: "Reports show that Jazz and Autobots under his orders attacked the energon transports to the planet three times in a row. Three times, that's deliberate!"

"The reports only show that he sent groups with the order to attain energon in the sector, not that they robbed the transports." Sunflare smirked. "And am I wrong in saying that you aren't able to provide a single witness of those robberies?"

Of course, he wasn't wrong. Witnesses were mysteriously scarce in this whole trial. Probably not surprising if one considered the former positions of the accused and the secrecy level they had operated under. At least that was the official explanation.

"There are dozen of witnesses!"

"Of mechs who were on the transports. Of the mechs who were robbed, but not a single one of the robbers or any other mech who has seen any connection between the robbers and the Autobots under Jazz's command."

The other side was forced to admit the truth of this – first strike for Sunflare. Tyrest smiled at the seeker lawyer who was now defending the one case of his life. These joors would make or break his career.

What puzzled Tyrest was the accused bondmates' behaviour. At first he had assumed that them pleading innocent was simply their payment for Sunflare. After all, taking on such a young and inexperienced lawyer and then not to let him speak a word might have led many mechs to the conclusion that he wasn't able to defend them. A notion was now having the chance to disprove spectacularly.

If this were true, though, Prowl and Jazz would observe Sunflare with something close to neutrality. Instead, for the first time since he saw them in this Hall, Prowl's wings seemed tense and Jazz sat nearly straight in his chair. They were worried.

About what?

After all, Sunflare was doing a marvellous job and his career would no doubt be great after this. And this case wouldn't make a noticeable difference in their final sentence anyway...

Sunflare was now going into the details of the various reports, the time stamps, the designation that signed them and took them all apart. It was nearly funny how the well practised front of the lawyers suddenly got cracks and let chaos show through. They had underestimated the young seeker and were now paying dearly.

Watching him, Tyrest reviewed all what he knew about the accused and frowned slightly as he realised that he was missing more than he had thought.

Prowl and Jazz had prepared for this trial for a long, long time. Shortly after the war and again after Starscream's fall laws had been written anew. He himself had always been one of the major influences. Less known was the fact that Prowl had been the counsellor for Prime's opinions about the laws – and that more than once a law had been rejected because of Prowl's disapproval.

The laws about crimes and war crimes had especially concerned the mech...  it must be a strange feeling to be tried by the very laws you've helped to write, Tyrest mused.

But their power and influence hadn't ended or even begun there. If one were to consider their connections and favours owed alone, they would be two of the most influential mechs on the planet. But if one added their political clout and the monetary influence through dozens of investments made directly after the war... Tyrest was maybe one of the very few mechs alive who understood the amount of power they had over Cybertronian society.

Without a doubt, this power had been the reason why they had known that this orn would come. He had seen photos of Jazz and Prowl's apartment from after their arrest and stared at them for a long time until realising what had disturbed him. Their apartment had been empty of anything meaningful to their sparks. No photos, no small souvenirs, no anything. That they had only taken a few books and a single game with them had spoken volumes.

"Objection!" called Sunflare out and interrupted the speaking lawyer. "Even if we suppose that my clients sent those mechs – it would have happened with a very different intention than pure malice!"

The lawyer, an older mech who had opted for a long tail instead of legs, huffed. "To interrupt energon transports three times in a row, knowing exactly what would happen to the colony, cannot be anything but malice!"

"But it is," insisted Sunflare with an earnest expression, that was trained out of lawyers before their first vorn was over. It made his face young, but much more believeable. "Just before the famine, several energon plants had been destroyed and in other sectors transports had also been attacked. As a result part of the Autobot army was starving."

Sunflare wouldn't have needed to say more, as the sudden ripple of understanding through nearly every mech in the hall was more than enough. Even Tyrest, who had _known_ that there must have been good reasons in most cases, felt his spark become heavier with sadness.

"Are you saying, lawyer Sunflare, that they stole the energon to fuel their own soldiers?" he asked.

"If they did it, then only to fuel their own people, yes." Sunflare's optics were determined. "But there is more! The Autobots were at war at the same time, a very energy devouring activity as we all know. As such the Autobots would've died much faster alone through this factor. Also, the Decepticons would've used such an opportunity without hesitation, bringing certain death to even more Autobots."

Tyrest nodded. "So, you're saying they were forced to attack the transporters?"

A trick-question. By law, they weren't forced at all to do this, it had still been their own decision. It would only be a huge mitigating circumstance, which would lower any sentence significantly.

Sunflare didn't fall for it. "I'm saying that in this situation, they had very limited space to decide," the seeker explained. "And decide they must. After all, even if they had done nothing, mechs would've died."

And the mitigating evidence grew. Tyrest would've congratulated the young lawyer if they had been alone.

"They decided to sacrifice innocent civilians in favour of their own cause!" interrupted one of the other lawyers.

"Sacrifice?" asked Sunflare. "Not at all! They decided to see every spark as equal and took the option in which the least amount of sparks would extinguish through a famine."

The seeker was good, very good. That was the trouble with truth, there were always more versions than belief.

The lawyer scowled. "You have no proof of your theory and even if it's true, this doesn't absolve them."

"I have more proof than your side does," argued Sunflare. "But if you look at their life later, wouldn't you say they saw worth in every kind of spark? No matter if it had been Neutral, Decepticon or Autobot?" This question from a mech who was the creation of a Decepticon and a Neutral... Sunflare subtly used himself as evidence. "I'm not even saying that my clients did it. I'm saying that someone chose between starving a neutral colony of 253 mechs, in result killing 67 mechs of which 13 were sparklings and starving 284 Autobots, which probably would have killed them all."

It still made them guilty by law, argued the lawyers.

"Which law?" asked Sunflare with a smirk. "We're now holding to mechs to account by laws that hadn't even been written yet when the supposed crime happened!" He pointed up to the High Judge. "Once, the only set of law that was still in effect and enforced was the Tyrest Accord. How can we expect mechs to act in accordance to laws that don't exist? The answer is simple: We can't."

It was an good argument, but doomed to fail. After all, the Tyrest Accord had been written in a manner that had given both factions lots of interpretation room. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to get them all to agree. Primus knows, he advertised for stricter laws for vorns, before writing the Accord as it had been used later on.

This interpretation room was now acting against Prowl and Jazz. Peace had made the mechs see the matters more strictly and interpret them more harshly. And while they were only tried for crimes that had happened in violation of the Accord, they were tried during peace time and under peace time law – and would receive the punishments of a peace time.

Sunflare though wasn't finished yet and managed to force the other lawyers into a discussion about the laws of the Tyrest Accord – a discussion for which the other side was decidedly prepared worse for than the seeker lawyer.

And slowly, but surely Sunflare was winning on the ground that there was no proof by which they could be hold guilty under the Tyrest Accord – which meant that the court had to declare them innocent.

Then, Sunflare did something very unexpected. He said: "We've heard now everything about the view of other mechs on this matter," turned around to his clients and asked: "Prowl, Jazz, could you please tell them now your viewpoint from the moment on in which the first problems of low energon supply appeared?"

Prowl and Jazz exchanged a long look, then the former saboteur relaxed. "Sure, we can. I think for us the whole sad story started with a message that we got from Kup. He told us..."

In precise, slow words they described reports, meetings, conversations and in the end decisions. Never admitting to the attacks on the energon transports, they explained everything else. From the statistics to secret agents and other resources available.

Everything.

For the very first time in history, Cybertronians listened to how the core of the most secret and mysterious organisation of the Autobots had worked – and decided. It was a cold tale, but also one that mentioned surprisingly often the honest goal to save sparks.

Tyrest wondered why now. What made this case so different that they would break their wall of silence?

"As a result, I ordered all Autobots in the whole sector to ration their energon," said Prowl. "Of course, all leaders obeyed officially, but we were well aware that nearly ten percent more energon than allowed was still used. For various reasons."

Jazz chuckled. "Nice description, Prowler, for mechs who didn't give a slag and just ignored what we told them. 'Cause we loved to harass them."

Or maybe... it wasn't different than the dozen of cases before. Maybe, this was exactly the same and they just wanted to prove something. Prove that they had tried? That they had given their best?

He looked at Sunflare again, who animatedly spoke about the tragedy of starvation and how horrible it must have been to be in this situation. The crowd hung on his lips and slowly the arguments of the other lawyers crumpled into nothing.

No. Before the trial everyone had already believed and known that they had given their best. Had tried. This wasn't what was in question here. This was a trial and the only thing that counted here was guilt.

So maybe, they wanted to prove that they _could_ have defended themselves. That they _chose_ to accept the guilt, the blame...

Yes.

And all the bits fell into place and Tyrest _understood._ Maybe not their goal in its entirety, but their game at least.

Both sides fell quiet and he spoke with his Lower Judges. For once, their decision was not swift. But in the end they had to agree with him and the verdict was written down.

For Prowl and Jazz, this trial had never been about the question if they did the crimes or not. It had been about justice and punishment.

Aequitas confirmed the verdict, and Tyrest sighed. It was also the confirmation of his thoughts.

Reputation, duty, requests and habit had formed a cage, out of which there was no escape. Prowl and Jazz were trapped within their own definition of their existence. Trapped within their own feeling of responsibility and the deep pain their path of wisdom and sacrifice had brought.

This kind of sparkpain would maybe never heal. They had been too young when the war started. They had created themselves too much around this existence. Their own connections ran too deep into everything they had built and destroyed and sacrificed and rescued. They couldn't let go of Cybertron.

Only of themselves.

"The court has decided! In case 56 against the Defendants Prowl and Jazz, they have been found innocent of all charges. So might it be, 'till all are one."

The crowd answered and Tyrest sighed.

What did it matter if he declared them innocent by law if they still felt guilty?


	8. Mirage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirage was a noble by creation, but what he had chosen, fought and bled to become was the best infiltrator that had ever lived. And he was going to prove it.

 

8\. Mirage

 

It had been hundreds of decavorns since his last mission. The feeling of one was now just as exhilarating as he remembered it to be. He had to fight to keep a smile off his face plates. Officially, he had nothing to smile about.

After all, today he and Hound would betray the confidence of his old friend and superior, Jazz. As state witnesses of the last cases, they would seal their fate to save themselves from punishment.

"Ready?" asked Hound, who stood next to him, concern plain on his face. They were waiting in a small, simple room right next to the Halls of Justice, which was already being filled by the usual crowd of witnesses and important mecha.

Mirage nodded, every inch of him the cool noble he had been raised to be. "Always."

His bondmate smiled fleetingly, then touched his arm in a gesture of reassurance, giving Mirage the needed appearance of emotional warmth. Hound always had a gift for that task.

They both were well aware of the fact that this waiting room was connected to Trypticon's cameras and that the network stations had asked for and received permission to show what happened inside. At this moment, every screen on Cybertron probably pictured them and the four Enforcers who guarding their lives in high definition complete with irrelevant comments of the so called experts.   There was more than enough to talk about. After all, when it had become known that they would be state witnesses, they suddenly received dozens of threats.

It was a thoughtful gesture to give the guards, though Mirage had wondered darkly what would happen when an attacker managed to get to Hound or him and was just being ripped apart. After all, they both had been Jazz's elite. Part of Prime's guard and the elimination squad if someone needed to disappear fast and quietly.

He checked his chronometre. Soon, it would start.

Hound stepped a bit closer to him, not exactly embracing him yet, but far nearer than he would've allowed any other bot. It was intimate.

It was the beginning of his mission.

Slowly, he felt out Hound's warm, familiar field. They were similar thanks to being bondmates and as Hound began pulsing softly, they synchronised in less than four klicks. Meditation, endless training and their bond let them accomplish the next step – the synchronisation of their very sparks.

The bond was so wide open by now that it was nearly painful.

He felt Hound inside himself. Was Hound. Was One.

"We need to go," said one of the Enforcers and both mechs nodded – at exactly the same time.

The doors from the small waiting room to the Hall of Justice opened.

And they initiated the sequence.

Hound turned and stepped through the door into the Hall. Next to him was Mirage, aloof and sophisticated as ever. Around them were the Enforcers, all gleaming armour and tense awareness, an obvious warning not to try anything.

Only it was a lie.

The real Mirage watched them go, pressed against the wall beside the door. He felt the strain of the synchronisation and knew that for Hound it had to be worse, because the hologram and situation demanded a lot more concentration, but his bondmate moved like always. Treated the hologram like it really was his bondmate. The only hint that the scout wasn't calm, was the slight nervousness in his gaze, the hesitation in his steps. Hound's acting skills amazed Mirage every time he saw them.

With the bond now firmly shut down as they both couldn't risk the smallest distraction from their mission, he carefully sneaked after them.

The Halls really were a sight to behold, spacious, with Aequitas on one side and the golden glyphs on which their society rested on the other. It reminded Mirage of the Great concert hall of Iacon, which had been completely destroyed during the War. He had mourned the concert hall like a mech as then he had been convinced that their race would never be able to climb back from that endless spiral of violence and death. To him the Hall of Justice was more, it was a monument that proved that while in war they had been unparalleled monsters to the universe, they also had the ability to be great in peace. It had restored his pride of being a Cybertronian.

The chairs in the observer and normal witness section were already taken by mechs from every corner of Cybertron, former Autobots, Decepticons, neutrals, the rich and the poor, the intelligent, next to brutal thugs. Some he recognised, most he didn't. They all sat together, united, quietly watching the entrance of the state witnesses.

That Hound and Mirage entered later than the normal witnesses and observers had been another security measure, which now worked perfectly to their advantage. No one came close enough to the hologram to touch it, and even if a mech would try, the four Enforcers would no doubt step in.

Mirage let the previously hidden smile slide onto his face. This had been worth the decaorns of time to create those threat messages and small attacks on themselves.

When Hound and the hologram sat down in their chairs, Mirage sighed in relief. Hound's most dangerous part was over – no one would come close to the state witnesses during the trials and their testimonies. As long as Hound kept up the act, no one would ever suspect anything and they both would've the perfect alibi.

"Tz," sneered a mech in the chair a row in front of Mirage suddenly. "That's Mirage? He looks like any slagging noble I've ever seen. All arrogance and pose. And the moment he's in trouble, he sells out his friends."

Mirage just frowned. A long time ago, such comments would've hurt him deeply. By now, he just felt a sense of annoyance.

"Shh." His minibot neighbour gave him a look. "This is not the time, Gatewinder."

"'course it's the time. The Enforcers connect him to a few crimes and instead of defending himself, he starts singing and selling mechs left and right like any true noble," grumbled Gatewinder. "He was just lucky that there were no good witnesses so far, or he probably would already be in prison or something."

"Maybe," acknowledged the other mech. "But I think there is more to him than being a noble. After all, he is one of just a handful of nobles surviving the war. Remember how they were hunted down? Yet, he didn't just survive, I heard he became Jazz's most trusted agent. And no mech gets that position just by being a noble."

Oh, so true. Mirage had bled and killed for his job and position, and had worked harder than anyone until he was the best. That he had been a noble had only helped with the reports he had to fill out – Prowl had sent them back less than to most mechs.

Gatewinder crossed his arms. "Just makes him an even bigger liar."

"Of course." The minibot sighed. "But at least look at his bondmate, he's a commoner like us."

"Who bonded rich, great." Gatewinder narrowed his optics. "That Hound was a spy, too, yes? Probably felt right home with another liar. And didn't the nobles get part of their former territories back? Compensation or something? Slagging rich bunch, they are."

"Oh, come one, Gatewinder, that Hound was a scout. Sure, in Jazz's division, but a lowly, simple scout." The minobot leaned to his friend. "Besides, Mirage did get back part of his territory, but that didn't make him rich."

Gatewind snorted. "How can't you be rich, when you have that much land?"

"'Cause he loved that scout," and here the other mech smirked, "so much that he turned the whole territory into a park for the recovery of Cybertronian wildlife. You might heard of it, it's called the Foundation...?"

Gatewinder stared at his friend with wide optics. "They are the founders...?"

"Sure." The nameless bot grinned.

Mirage decided to remember the minibot's faceplates, just for being so obviously in favour of their project. It had been Hound's dream and he had helped, because it had made Hound happy... but before the vorn had been over, it had become Mirage's dream as well. It was their contribution to rebuilding Cybertron and it made Mirage proud that his ancestor's land now had such a useful and noble purpose.

His time was running out. Hurriedly, he walked, always close to the wall, to the grand doors, which promptly opened with a bang. In marched the accused and for a moment, that took Mirage's breath away. Despite being chained and surrounded by Enforcers, Jazz and Prowl were the very picture of confidence. Helmets held high, chains never stretching, it was seemingly them that determined the walking speed. Maybe they really were.

After all, chains always worked in two ways. And he had seen on more than one occasion how Jazz had demonstrated this little fact with deadly effect. He wondered if the Enforcers knew what they were chained up to. Probably not.

He couldn't analyse them further as the doors already began to close. With care he slipped through them.

Doors and walls would be Mirage's biggest hindrance for his mission. For all his skills at being invisible, he was still there – and doors only opened for mechs Trypticon could see or at least notice.

Yet, here were ways around that and Mirage knew them all.

But those ways depended on the small fact that he was at the right place at the right time. Mirage, after checking his chronometre, began to ran down the corridors, always painfully alert so that he wouldn't bump into anyone. Everywhere were Enforcers with their magnetized badges and security mechs with serious, but by now tired, expressions. Some just were walking somewhere, some guarding doors.

Despite the now settling routine, security was high.

And Mirage was walking right towards its worst spot – the security centre.

He slipped behind a young mech from the Sonic Canyons, easily recognisable by his nervously flashing fins, into the centre and stopped. The room was packed with mechs who talked and ordered and observed the dozens of screens that were plastered on every free space of the wall. It gave the overwhelming impression that the whole room was moving, even though most mechs were actually sitting behind desks, hard-wired into various comm-networks, and coordinating their squads.

Mirage's optics finally rested on Ironhide, who stood at the left side of the room with his legs apart, surrounded by four mechs, of which everyone carried at least one datapad. The former bodyguard was reading yet another data pad with a deep frown, commenting on it with short, gruff words every once in a while. His red paint was scuffed as if he hadn't had time for a proper maintenance in the last decaorn. Which was probably true.

Mirage hadn't actually seen him since the celebration creation party of Ultra Magnus' and Thundercracker's first sparkling. He had never been close to Ironhide, certainly neither of them called the other one friend, and after the war they just lived their lives. Now, though, he felt the old familiarity of mates in arms in arms again.

They would've died for each other a long time ago.

Mirage turned away from the Chief Enforcer, searching for the alcove which was his destination. There were several, all lined up next to the door and serving as storage space for various big weapons. Surprisingly many were empty. He found the right one – number 235 – and huddled in it. Waiting.

In the centre of the wall, right across from the door through which he had entered, were the big screens that showed the trial. Prowl and Jazz had entered without deigning Hound or Holo-Mirage a single glance. Hound, on the other hand, openly stared at them, the sorrow on his face as clear as if one had used a brush to paint the very glyphs on it, while Holo-Mirage looked ahead, tense and anxious.

Could one really read his emotions so clearly?

"Riot!" One of the Enforcers suddenly screamed.

Ironhide's head snapped towards him. "Explain, Enforcer!"

"Riot at the front entrance. It seems that the group that believes them to be innocent has attacked those that're demanding their deactivation..." The Enforcer's words trailed a bit as he realised that this was not the data Ironhide wanted. "Anyway, sir, both groups are around twenty mechs strong," a beep and he looked at his screen. "Correction, thirty mechs by now. The Enforcers at the entrance attempt to calm them, but are being ignored! They need support, immediately."

"Just slagging great." Ironhide frowned. "Group- D, Q and T – what are you waiting for? Get your weapons, regroup and move! Controllers, I want the other groups informed and alert! This could be a distraction. I need patrols in every corridor!"

From one moment to another, chaos broke out. Mechs were running into every directions, screaming orders and good-luck-wishes, grabbing weapons, shields, communicators and seemingly everything they could get their servos on.

Mirage stayed where he was. Good, old Ironhide. He always had good instincts.

"Mirage?" asked someone quietly.

He looked to the left and smiled. She really had become good, when she could sneak up on him. "Howlback," he greeted. "Do you have them?"

She scowled. "Of course." The former Autobot undercover agent moved to take the weapon in the alcove next to Mirage, and at the same time let something drop into his arms. Any casual observer would've just seen a small movement, easily dismissed by getting her weapon.

Without further words, she turned and joined the frenzy, yelling designations and orders.

Mirage didn't care. He cradled the two packages, stood, and followed the next mech outside. Thankfully, there were enough mechs running around that the one he touched by accident didn't even turn to look.

Mirage ran. Time was working against him, and he had to reach his next meeting point or all of it would've been for nothing.

He turned corners, following the Enforcers that spread out everywhere – even to the hallways that led deep into the prisons. The Enforcer before him stopped at his guarding point, the entrance to the prison which was a huge metal door secured with everything their planet had to offer.

Only Trypticon could open it without using enough explosives to incinerate the door, the wall and probably a good chunk of the whole building.

And in an emergency, the cityformer would open it for only one mech.

Hasty steps approached and before long, Fortress Maximus came down the hallways, face deadly serious. No doubt, he had already heard about the riot from Trypticon – who certainly had asked the mech to return into the main body of the cityformer. Cityformers were notorious about protecting their citizens, and as Maximus was the only true citizen Trypticon would want him as safe as possible. And the nearest entrance to Trypticon's main body and the prison complex from the balcony in which Maximus had observed the trial was the very one next to Mirage.

Maximus didn't even slow down as he approached the door – which slid apart eagerly and widely, welcoming the city master and citizen back.

It was enough for Mirage. He slipped in right next to Maximus.

He had done it.

Fortress Maximus walked on, but the agent stopped for an astrosecond, calming down. His processor called up the plans he had been sent by an anonymous associate in the Network. The map had been detailed, so detailed in fact, that he had wondered if someone had hacked the poor cityformer.

His system and thoughts calmed and he continued his way deeper into the prison, avoiding another trap every few steps. The map showed dozens of security measures and he if he triggered only one, he would into deep slag.

Finally, he reached the right cell door. It was nearly disappointing how simple it was. He put the two packages on the floor and gently - so as not to hurt and alert the cityformer – opened the wall across the door and connected to a cable that ran through there.

The anonymous message had included a code to an old virus from the Decepticon era. He prayed that this stranger really had been right about the code and that Trypticon was still infected by the virus. He sent the code.

For long astroseconds nothing happened.

Was Trypticon already alerting the Enforcers to the presence of an intruder? Was Hound all right? For a terrible moment he was tempted to wake their bond to know.

Then, the door next to him slid open and Mirage sagged in relief.

He took his two packages and entered the cell which had been the home of Prowl and Jazz over the last several orns. It was a luxurious cell as far as prison cells went. It even had a terminal! Surprised and amused, Mirage walked to the berths. One berth was nearly empty and obviously in use, on the other one laid book files and a single game of _Track_.

Mirage smiled sadly. So, they still didn't sleep in separate berths. When he had learned of the habit, he had thought it cute. Later on, he reasoned that they did it to keep nightmares at bay. Only when he really became Jazz's friend did the mech confess that he slept _on_ Prowl out of fear of assassins. Peace should've broken that habit.

Gently, he placed his packages next to the game and left the cell again, wishing he could've at least spoken with them once. However, all words between them had been said, and now even his part was done.

His promise was fulfilled.

He walked back the way he'd come just as carefully as the first time, and found himself in front of the door again. His instructions said to use the code again, and so he turned to the wall.

The door slid open, before he could touch the metal.

Mirage stared at it, then looked back the way he had come. Nothing. He was alone.

Slag.

::Go,:: said a deep voice, Trypticon, over his comm lines. ::Inspectors are coming.::

The former agent obeyed automatically and details that had escaped him before fell into place. Surprised, he asked: ::You?! You're my contact?::

::Yes.:: Trypticon sounded amused and proud of himself.

Before Mirage could reply, the the cityformer cut the connection. A sensible move, as there always was the risk that someone would detect just the wrong frequency.

Still... of all mechs, Trypticon, the very prison itself, was helping them.

Just as Trypticon and the whole of Cybertron gave Mirage an alibi, the camera and sensor logs would give Trypticon one. The one door that had open by itself, could be easily explained – if Trypticon didn't erase the log information completely anyway.

The virus probably had just been the way to keep something out of the log system altogether. It had made the cityformer vulnerable, but when he had expected the virus, Mirage wouldn't have been able to do anything without Trypticon's permission.

It was brilliant. It was a Prowl and Jazz plan.

In a good mood, Mirage made his way back into the waiting room. When the break bell sounded, the four Enforcers led Hound and Holo-Mirage back to the room to refresh themselves and to be safe from the now freely walking mechs.

The switch back was effortless in comparison to the first one.

The green and white scout leaned against him, tired on an emotional and physical level. Mirage embraced his bulkier frame as good as he could, a silent apology that he had left Hound alone with the burden of both their testimonies.

"How are you?" asked his bondmate.

Mirage sighed. "I'm well." He shuttered his optics as the exhilaration drained away, leaving only the grief and tiredness behind. "I think this all will be over soon."

 


	9. Ratchet

9\. Ratchet

 

"There's nothing to be scared of," he said more gently than any Autobot had ever heard him speak. "This is just a scan of your spark, yes?"

The youngling looked at him with big optics and nodded hesitantly after looking at his creators for reassurance.

"Good," praised Ratchet. "Please, open your chest compartements now." He waited, not showing any impatience, until the little one nodded again and initiated the sequence.

This was a huge sign of trust that most medics would never get and – thankfully – never need. Spark damage and spark diseases, which a mech could survive, were a rarity.  
Yet, this one seemed to have won in the lottery of life. As the blue light spilled into the medic room, it became obvious to the plain optic that this little spark wasn't round and symmetrically formed. Instead it reminded Ratchet of a raw crystal, with sharp edges and strange cavations of light. It was beautiful. But was it deadly?

"You're doing great, Halftwist," he said. "This might tingle a bit, but it will do nothing more, okay?"

"Okay," whispered Halftwist, looking anywhere but at the medic and his own spark. His hands gripped the berth beneath him tightly.

Instead of commenting on it, Ratchet started the scan.

When he left the room a joor later, a mech waited for him outside it. Leaning against the wall, all of his attention was on a datapad on which he scribbled calculations and formulas Ratchet had only once tried to understand. The resulting processor ache had become legendary as it had contributed to him finally making his threat to rebuild Sideswipe into a screwdriver true.

"Wheeljack," he greeted warmly, "what are you doing here?"

The engineer looked up surprised, then his face, no longer hidden behind a blast mask, split into a grin. "Ratchet! I just wanted to see you and then I heard about your newest   
case and decided to come."

Heard. Right. Probably one of his assistants called him. Everyone knew how he took failure – and death was failure in his processor – and they anticipated that it would even be worse with a youngling.

"He'll survive," he said and the certainty of his own words came as a relief. "Just bonding and the whole slag is out of question."

"That's great, Ratch'." Wheeljack smiled and touched his armplate.

Ratchet ruthlessly crushed the desire to lean into the touch. Once he had wanted to bond with this mech, but reasons always came between them, until those became plain suspicions. He started to ask questions. Where have you been this night? Why don't you have time, you finished your project orns ago? What are you building?  
Instead of answering, Wheeljack had always looked at the floor like a chastised youngling. Ratchet then had let the matter drop, just to notice something strange again a few orns later.

Wheeljack had no doubt noticed his struggles, as his joy had vanished. "I've heard you've got a break now. Want to grab a cube with me? I'll pay."

Ratchet blinked surprised. Since his ultimatum – your secrets or I, which he had lost – Wheeljack hadn't invited him anymore. "Sure, lead the way," he answered, not daring to hope yet.

Wheeljack's fans lit up a bit brighter.

Because Ratchet was the owner and chief of the hospital and the medic school connected to it, he couldn't just go. Wheeljack knew that and, without a word, led him to the rec room, which doubled as the entrance to the Administration Office. It was small, but comfortable and Ratchet was proud that the room had nearly no white at all. The room was unusually full, but quiet at the same time with mechs staring at the screen that every few astroseconds showed yet another picture about Prowl and Jazz. In between, one could hear the voices of Rook or Blaster commenting on various details of the trial.

Ratchet froze at the doorstep, for a long moment not able to look away from the screen.

"Ratch'..." muttered the engineer behind him, his field hesitantly touching the medics' to offer comfort. Another first for vorns now.

"It's over, right?" asked Ratchet and he couldn't hide the sorrow in his voice.

"Yes," answered Wheeljack. "The final verdict was spoken two joors ago."

Ratchet sighed. "Death?"

"Spark execution. They'll be the first mechs to be executed since..."

"Since Starscream ruled, I know." He forced himself to look away from the screen, his past friends and walked on.

This was the reason why he hated the Black Ops and Special Ops and secret anything during the war and after. They turned good bots into monsters. More often than not, he had been the one left with the results, with the scarred mechs, tortured sparks and mutilated protoforms. He knew that Wheeljack was a good mech, but his secrets, the avoidance to tell him what they were and the clear signs that he wasn't involved in it alone, had reminded him too much of the war and its darkest places.

Still, he had never thought that Wheeljack would choose his secrets above him, Ratchet. Yet, he had.

When he had finished, they left the building and walked next to each other down the street. Wherever they turned, there was always another screen showing the same pictures, another small group of mechs discussing them. Ratchet tried to not let it touch his spark, but before they reached the café he just wanted to mourn for the mechs he once called comrades and friends.

"Ratchet, here," said Wheeljack suddenly next to him, handing him a cube. Then the engineer walked around their small table and sat down in the chair across from him.  
Ratchet took a grateful sip and had to smile when he noticed that this was exactly his most favourite blend. Wheeljack had remembered it. He looked to his former lover. "Thank you."

"No trouble." He smiled. "I don't like to see you sad."

Good, caring Wheeljack. But... "Doesn't this concern you at all? They were your friends, too."

The engineer flinched and then his face fell. "It does, but..."

"But what?" He had enough of secrets.

"Ratch', look," he fell back into his chair. "I do care about them, really, but I think they... they kinda wanted this."

He wanted to throw his cube at Wheeljack's helmet. "Wanted to be executed?! Don't be ridiculous."

Wheeljack's optics dimmed. "But that's how it appears, doesn't it? They don't defend themselves..." He sighed. "Ratch', let's just... talk about something else, okay? This is not how I want this to go."

But Ratchet was just getting warmed up and his old anger and disappointment only fuelled it. "How did you want it to go? Did you want me to just sit here, not think about anything while you hide your secrets and what you do in your free time? Or what you do even in your working hours, after all, I caught your more than once tinkering with things that were certainly not part of your work."

"Ratchet..."

"Oh, and let's not forget how you even stole my medical files. I could have you tried for this, you know?"

"I know, but..."

However, Ratchet wasn't finished yet. "I thought you had fallen in love with another bot, Wheeljack." The cube in his hand cracked. "But no, you just told me that you had to do a few things for Cybertron and everyone, but that you wouldn't tell me what! Slag it!" He sagged, as the old pain overwhelmed him again. "Slag you."

Wheeljack's face was full with regret. "I've never loved any bot but you, Ratchet." He sighed. "I've missed you constantly since you threw me out of our apartment. That's the truth, really."

An apartment Ratchet had sold barely three decaorns later, because it had been too big and empty and quiet.

"Really," repeated the medic bitterly. But he desperately wanted to believe it. "Why did you come today? It wasn't just because of the kid."

Wheeljack shook his head, not able to look at him – again. "No. I would've come anyway, but maybe a few orns later and better prepared."

"Prepared? For what?"

Wheeljack was quiet for a few seconds, his hands twitching as if he wanted to grasp and twiddle with something. He was nervous. "You said... when you threw me out, remember? You said, that if I quit with the secrets and working for them, you would take me back."

Ratchet had expected as much, but this was too close to his dreams to have considered it. "'Jack..."

"I finished my last work for them a decaorn ago and they'll leave me alone now. Not that I ever was forced to work for them, but... it's finished. The whole thing, and it was a good thing, and I would do it again. But losing you was nearly too much." Wheeljack took a deep breath. "So, I wanted to ask... if those words were true."

They had been true then. But now? "'Jack..." He shook his head. "It's not just that. It's the trust between us to." Trust he had once thought complete. "You didn't want to tell me."

"I wanted to," argued Wheeljack. "I just didn't want to hurt you."

"Hurt me?" echoed Ratched, believing he had heard wrong. "You did hurt me! All those lies and secrets hurt me!"

The engineer became smaller with every comment, his fins actually turned a rare shade of grey. "I know."

"Then why?"

"'Cause... I've seen you in the war. How you looked at those spies and agents that came to you. I swore to myself that I never wanted to see you like this again." He sighed. "Even if I had to be the one to hurt you."

For a long moment, the medic wasn't sure what to say. Those orns in the war Wheeljack was referring to had been the worst in his life. He had started to prefer the clean violence of a battle to the purposeful damage and pain of other beings, who would come to his medic bay begging for death and relief.

"Please tell me," he said when his processor started working again, "that you didn't... hurt someone." Not his Wheeljack. Primus, he loved that mech. Don't let him be wrong like that.

Wheeljack's fins turned into a shocked white. "Never!" He stared at Ratchet with wide optics. "I helped them to recover!" Then he registered his own words and shut his mouth again. Calmer he continued: "I've not hurt or helped to hurt any living being. I swear."

His sincerity was plain. Ratchet nodded, too relieved to say anything. For vorns he had lived with imagining the worst, so that this little snippet of information was like a boulder falling from his spark.

"Ratch'... about my question..." said Wheeljack hesitantly. "You don't have to answer now."

"Nonsense." He smirked. "You forget I know you. You wouldn't be able to leave me alone until you have an answer. And forgive me when I say I can live without a stalker very well."  
Wheeljack chuckled embarrassed. "True."

Ratchet looked at his cube. Could he live with Wheeljack again? He had hungered after Wheeljack's little jokes, his smiles, his awkward demeanour and even his enthusiasm for work. He could listen to Wheeljack ranting about a new project for joors, just admiring him. So yes, he could. But could he bond to this mech? He wanted to. Wanted to fall into his spark and never let it go. He had just feared his secrets. Feared to not know this mech after all.

"If you're telling the truth, then yes," he said slowly. "I still want to bond to you."

The expression on Wheeljack's face could've powered Cybertron for the next decavorn.

When Ratchet returned to his work, he felt light and happy. A nurse bot made an error – he corrected him calmly. A patient refused the best way to treat his problems – he explained the matter a third time, until the mech understood the why his idea was better forgotten in the pit. His colleagues made a joke – he laughed and made one his own.  
Before his shift was over, everyone was acting as if he would break any given moment.

"Ratchet?" asked finally First Aid, no doubt sent by the various medics lurking around the corner of the next corridor. "Are you alright?"

"Yes." Then he remembered Wheeljack. "Better than alright."

First Aid frowned. "But Halftwist?"

"Will live. Maybe never bond, but live a full and healthy life."

"Oh." First Aid smiled. "That's good."

"Very."

"Okay. And ... you're okay with the trial, too?"

Ratchet froze. He had actually forgotten about it. "Well... I guess. I have to, right?"

"You don't seem very surprised."

Ratchet's mouth turned into a grim line. "Who do you think got their victims?" he asked bitterly, for a moment fighting to suppress the energon-pink images his mind provided. He hadn't needed to provide any witness statements – it had all been in the formerly sealed files. "Spark execution is not a nice way to go, First Aid. But I've seen worse."

The medic nodded carefully. "I understand..."

His former student was clearly not inclined to go. Ratchet sighed, irritated, and saw with satisfaction that First Aid didn't take a step back as the other wanna-be-medics he was teaching every vorn. "I'm fine, First Aid. Really. Wheeljack has just asked me a question."

"A question? That's all?" He seemed sceptical.

"Yep." And the warm feeling returned and he had to smile again. "We – he wants to come back."

First Aid stared and then – before Ratchet could step back – he had hugged his teacher. "Congratulations! That's wonderful news!"

Awkwardly, he stood there and nodded. "Yeah..."

First Aid released him. "I have to tell the others!"

"How do you even know I said yes?" muttered Ratchet, but First Aid only grinned and nearly ran back to his colleagues.

If this news needed more than a joor until even the last patient knew, Ratchet would be deeply disappointed into his hospital's rumour mill. Wheeljack and him, back together. Maybe bonding after all. It was a strange thought. It was a thought he wanted to become true.

The last vorns without Wheeljack had been too lonely.

He ended his shift on time – a fact that made his chief nurse nearly as happy as himself – and walked home. His apartment was small, and now that he looked at it critically kind of impersonal. In fact, it was clinically clean. He had brought his work home, or rather he hadn't left work for more than his berth. Sometimes not even then.  
If Wheeljack came back and they bonded, this would change drastically. Wheeljack brought colour and chaos to everywhere he went. Ratchet loved him for it. Primus, how had he lived without that mech?

::Chief medic Ratchet, are you available at the moment?:: a voice suddenly asked over his comm line, tagged as highest priority.

Immediately, he tensed. ::Ironhide, I haven't heard from you in a long time. What happened?::

::I need you on Luna Two. Now.::

Luna Two. The prison. Prowl and Jazz. This couldn't be good. Not when the medics on Luna Two weren't enough. ::I'm coming.::

::A shuttle is on the way.:: A deep breath. ::Ratchet... thank you::

::Always, Ironhide. Always:: He felt the cool wall at his back and slumped against it, shuttering his optics, pushing his feelings down. They were just patients, just mechs, just things he needed to fix. He hadn't needed that mantra since the Great War. ::Tell me the details.::

Only a joor later, he was rushed into the prison cell.

The hallway in front of it was already overcrowded with mechs and at the doorway to the cell Ironhide greeted him with a sharp shake of his head. Ratchet gritted his denta, refusing to let his emotions show. Instead, he nodded back and entered the cell.

A green and purple mech was already inside, kneeling next to the berth. Without looking up, he said: "Hello, Ratchet."

"Hook," he answered. He wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. Instead he stepped next to the Constructicon and forced himself to look at the berth.  
Prowl was lying on his back, wings spread and his face peaceful. His arms were around his smaller mate, who was snuggled on his front in a way that had to be uncomfortable. Both were utterly grey and dead.

Primus. Ratchet felt his hands trembling and a huge hand choked his spark just as Megatron once had. This couldn't be true. It simply couldn't... They would never...

"Poison," said Hook suddenly. "I even recognise it. Mixmaster developed it during the war so that discovered Decepticon agents had a quick way out. It works very fast, affecting the spark directly through the energy buffers around the spark chambers. It deactivates them, which leads to an uncontrollable and unstoppable destabilisation of the sparks. As far as we were able to deduct, it's not a painful way to die. One of Mixmaster's better inventions."

Ratchet wished for nothing more than that he would stop talking. Every word made reality even sharper and more hurtful.

"The poison was in that game of theirs. The poison capsules are small, created to be hidden in small spaces and not to be visible in a scan. Scrapper designed them, of course. One would've had to take the game entirely apart to find it."

Soft footsteps alerted them to a mech behind them. It was Ironhide. "Which we didn't," the Chief Enforcer explained quietly, every word a confession of failure and guilt. He looked as if all strength had left him. "Because it would've erased the several hundred vorns old memory. We checked it, there were over a million saved games and scores on it. They must've put the poison inside the game before the war had ended."

Which made a certain kind of sense. But Ratchet would rather be damned before he said that.

"Anything else?" asked Hook, coolly professional.

Ironhide shook his head. "Nothing that concerns you. They've left a last message on one of the book files, but it's with experts for programming now."

Hook nodded and looked around in the room as if to find further explanation for this. Ratchet followed his gaze, but all he could see was a prison cell with two standard berths, a few forgotten personal book files on the other berth, a destroyed game on the floor and a terminal in the corner.

What a sad, little, impersonal room.

Ratchet knew he was stalling. The medics of the Enforcers had already declared them dead, and Hook had too, but he was the last instance. As the highest ranking medic on Cybertron his word would count.

But this was Prowl and Jazz. Strong. Indestructible in their opinions, if not in their frames. The mechs which he had followed when everything had seemed dark.

Suicide.

It didn't compute. It wasn't them!

They had deserved so much more. Deserved to die surrounded by friends and family. Through age. Yet, here they laid. Alone and broken through a trial that had managed what the Great War never did.

He scrambled for a happy thought. Wheeljack. It made it bearable.

With him in his mind, he knelt and took one of his crudest tools out of his subspace. It was heavy and he despised it. As he put it into position on Jazz, he flashed back to the youngling only joors before. The trust in those blue, alive optics, the hard, colourful armour that had revealed delicate plating, that slid aside to bare the most fragile of metal petals, which finally smoothly had opened themselves around the spark chamber.

This time there was no smoothness and no trust. Metal was screeching as he forced plate after plate apart, savagely tearing through the most intimate parts a mech possessed. Behind him, mechs were turning away, not able to watch the violation. Ratchet felt his own tanks rolling, his sight blurring and he wished he could do the same.  
Finally, he had the spark chamber in front of him. A few tests – it remained dark and dead.

"Empty," he whispered.

No Jazz anymore. Never again.

He wanted to keen when he realised that Jazz wasn't lying by chance as he did, but that he had positioned himself directly above Prowl's spark. Protecting him until the very last moment. The faces of the mechs around him turned even grimmer, as they realised the same.  
Gently, Ironhide and Hook put Jazz's corpse on the floor, then Ratchet started on Prowl.

"Empty," he repeated his diagnosis. And only felt empty himself.

Why? Why now?

It made no sense. He stared down at the chamber which remained as it had always been, just without the one bright thing that had mattered. That hadn't changed...

Wait a moment.

He remembered every spark chamber he had seen in his life. Every single one was unique in its smallest details. And something... he tilted his head. Then, tilted it back, spark spinning in sudden excitement.

There was no mistake.

This was not Prowl's spark chamber, but the one spark chamber which he would recognise everywhere. This was Wheeljack's, or at least it looked very similar.

"Ratchet? Is everything alright?" asked Ironhide behind him.

"No." Ratchet straightened. "But you knew that already, right?"

"Yeah." Ironhide sighed. "I think Blaster was right after all... they felt too guilty."

Ratchet nodded, agreeing automatically. "They always did the most terrible things and then..." How to describe the moments when he had to force Prowl to refuel, because the mech refused until all of the soldiers hurt in the last battle were provided for? Or when Jazz sneaked into the med bay and asked, clearly concerned, after the very mech he had just tortured for joors? He shook his helmet. "I think it's better when I go now."

His old friend agreed and on his wink a mech called Stungun escorted him back to the shuttle.

On Cybertron, he stumbled out of the spaceport, determined and feeling more like himself than he had in a long time.

::Wheeljack?:: he commed. ::I need you.::

::I'm coming.::


	10. Bluestreak

10\. Bluestreak

 

Between Polyhex and Tarn was a stretch of land, claimed by few mechs that were commonly thought of as insane. With the Bad Lands in the north, the Rust Sea in the south and a harsh wind that blew metallic dust into every joint, this was not an inviting place at the best orns.

During the worst orns so called 'light storms', consisting of metallic splinters, leftovers and ash from the war, rolled over the surface, forming a deadly gleaming wall so bright that it took the sight of every travelling bot, stranding them until the storm calmed. Or forever.

Further problems provided the temperature differences. On some orns the roads would heat up until they were smouldering and only joors later they had cooled to the point of freezing energon in less than a klick.

Through this inhospitable part of Cybertron led only a single road on which heavy transporters and all those who couldn't buy a shuttle ticket travelled, hoping for money and a new life in the still rebuilding Tarn.

It was a long and dangerous ride for these bots, with only one possible safe break in the very middle of it. Between two heavy boulders defied a small scuffed house the climate, never bowing down, never raising above its two protectors.

This was the roadhouse of route 522, a haven for weary mechs and hardened couriers, with no name of its own. But those who knew it, called it "Silver's tavern" with quiet appreciation for the owner.

A lone, once maybe blue mech neared the tavern, his engine stuttering from the dust. As he transformed, he looked at the small house with the same relief of all those that came before him, but also with a hint of satisfaction. Then he turned, frowning at the horizon which seemed brighter than just klicks ago... A storm was coming. Hurriedly, he walked to the battered, often reinforced door and entered.

Inside, life never seemed to change.

Silverstreak, who was cleaning one of the old, worn tables of the tavern, sighed as he got the alert that the light storm had reached the district just south from his own. It was the third one in this decaorn alone and he worried that again mechs wouldn't make it to his roadhouse in time. The table now a polished perfection, he straightened and flared his wings in light distress. Maybe he should go out for a last klick flight and look for lost travellers? It would be dangerous, yes, but a spark was always worth the risk. Not to mention he kind of liked the danger, the air just before a storm hit. Already he could feel the electricity in the air caressing his wings.

He looked around towards his guests and mentally counted them. His roadhouse wasn't big and most had arrived in the last joor, taking the warnings he had sent out seriously. Thirteen dusty and exhausted mechs were now in this small room, drinking their cool energon. In the corner a few of them had started a game of Prime's Keeper, which led to short burst of laughter every few breems. Silverstreak knew most of them personally as they were regulars and he always offered a few friendly words with his cubes. Usually they were accepted gratefully. Sometimes he just listened, sometimes he supported a whole dialogue alone, whatever his visitors seemed to want and need.

Silverstreak relaxed as he realised that no one who he knew to be travelling in this orn on route 522 was missing.

He loved his job here, far away from the hectic cities and complicated lifes. Instead everything was dominated by the storms and when the next energon transport came. It was simple. And the moments when he flew alone across the whole desert were magic.

A small chime in his commlinks signified a guest. A few astroseconds later a dirty mech of Iaconian built stepped through the door. His racer mode clearly marked him as a newcomer.

Silverstreak walked towards the door next to him, while the new visitor took in the used furniture, the nearly bare room, the quiet lull of several peaceful conversations around him with intelligent blue optics. They came to rest on the silver Polyhexian flier beside him, who was now making the door stormproof.  
As he sealed the door, Silverstreak knew that it was only a matter of klicks, until the light storm would hit them. He prayed as always that no mech would try to seek shelter and only find a closed door. But it was necessary.

"Excuse me," asked the Iaconian, when he had finished. "Are you Silverstreak by any chance?"

The flier startled. "Yes, that's me. Welcome by the way. Good that you've found your way here in time. The next storm will be nasty. How can I help you?"

"Well, an energon cube wouldn't be a bad idea," answered the stranger with a friendly smile. "Also, I'm searching for someone."

"And you hope to find him here?" said Silverstreak incredulously. "Well, good luck I guess. But the energon cube will be no problem. I have standard, sweet, acid, bitter, with copper and natrium, got even cobalt last decaorn. Whatever you like. Just no highgrade. Not advisable here, you know."

The Iaconian blinked at the list. "Ah, sure, I think I might like standard then."

"Good choice." The flier made a handwave that he should follow him and walked through the room to the bar. "Any preferred temperature?" he asked while he filled the cube. "And who are you searching for? Did you travel together? If yes, I might have bad news for you..." Silverstreak's wings twitched in anticipation of explaining yet another foolish traveller how dangerous and deadly the light storms were – and just how low the chance of finding their comrades again.

"No, no, I've never met him before," said the Iaconian. Silverstreak's wings sagged in relief. "And room temperature is fine."

"Great, here! We get the energon directly from Tarn, so it’s really good." Silverstreak gave him the cube and then frowned lightly. Something wasn't right. He looked over his visitor again, and had the feeling that he didn't belong to his usual clientele of truckers and fortune hunters. Everything about him spoke of casual confidence and a certain quality that was usually only found with lawyers or scientists. "You've never met him before? Do you know at least what he looks like or a designation? Picture would be helpful, too."

"Yes." The stranger eyed him sharply. "His designation is Bluestreak."

For a moment the flier was sure that his spark stopped spinning. "Bluestreak," he repeated quietly, tasting the glyphs he hadn't heard in vorns. "And who might you be?"

"My name is Rook. I'm a journalist." A slight nod accompanied the words.

Danger.Threat.Danger! screamed his battle protocols, calculating seven different scenarios how he could take out the journalist without much trouble. His servo was already touching the main subspace pouch in which commonly weapons were carried, before he caught himself. He forced his own reaction down, rationally knowing that 'shoot first, ask questions later' had never been good advice. Not even during the Great War.

Battle protocols now simmering just below the surface of his more civilised thoughts, he scrutinised the journalist. If one thought the dust and dirt away, Rook was quite easily recognised. Especially considering that Silverstreak had watched his show about the trial regularly until only three orns ago. Until when Blaster hadn't been able to read the news and excused himself statically in front of the whole audience, fleeing to grieve alone. Until when Rook himself had stared at the news and then told Cybertron the unbelievable in a flat, matter-of-fact voice... Since then Cybertron had been continuing on, quiet and somber compared to the screaming and excitement of the previous orns.

Even Rook had disappeared from the screens as if all had been said and done, had left the discussion of 'why' to the citizens and mechs on the street. Silverstreak had the feeling that he now knew why.

Rook hadn't moved one inch. Indeed, both of his servos were visible on the counter, and he was avoiding Silverstreak's optics. Classical behaviour to calm down aggressive defence protocols in warframes. Which helped the flier now, but was bad news overall. Just what did Rook already know?

"Please," said the journalist. "I will not do anything without your permission. I do not want to get you into trouble."

"Trouble? Your very presence is trouble for me." Again he had to clamp down on the surging battle protocols. Nothing would be worse than to kill a mech who had done nothing but state his job in front of a good dozen of witnesses. He sighed deeply. "I guess you know that I was Bluestreak once, right?" he whispered, dreading the answer with every inch of his frame.

"Yes," answered Rook just as quietly. "I want to talk and maybe to interview you. Nothing more, I promise."

Right. As if not the knowledge alone was dangerous. Or the fact that he had found him. Now it was too late. All he could realistically do, was to play Rook's game and to hope that he was sincere. Silverstreak couldn't hide the tremble in his wings at that thought, then he let age-old determination overcome him. It probably had been inevitable that sooner or later he would be found.

Obviously relieved that his host wouldn't take him apart, Rook looked around for a moment, but so far no one paid any attention to them.

Silverstreak wasn't surprised. These were regulars, hardened mechs that would help him in a dire situation without thinking, but they all respected him enough to let him settle his own affairs if he could. That didn't mean that they would let him kill Rook, though. They were good mechs like that.

"Come," he said, accepting his situation. "Let's go to the back room and then we can talk more. It's not as if anyone is going to leave while the storm is outside."  


Rook nodded and followed him out through a barely visible door behind the counter, then down two hallways and into a small room. It held a berth at the corner, a sturdy table and two chairs. Besides that it was empty.

"You rent those rooms out?" asked Rook conversationally as he took a seat.

"Yes. Good money and the mechs need it. Built most of it with my own servos, too. It's not even as difficult as mechs think, you just have to start and work." Silverstreak didn't hide his pride. "When I came here, there was nothing more than a shack and death rate that would've made Primus mourn."

"Impressive."

"Thanks." He took the second seat. "We're alone now, no other audios, nothing. So, let's talk as you said, Rook. I've heard of you and your investigations. Kinda liked them in the past, really, they were always interesting and to the point. But my roadhouse is not interesting and certainly not worth any investigation. Primus knows, there are no news around here, besides how the wind blows." Which was probably more important news in Silverstreak's life than Rook imagined. The wind ruled everything here. But he had to come to the point, had to keep his glitch at a leash. "So, I guess you want to talk about the war?"

Rook slowly nodded. "The war and of course, Prowl and Jazz."

"Of course," repeated Silverstreak with bitterness. "What else? Isn't it enough that they're dead?" He slowly shook his head. "I'm not interested in talking about them."

"I expected that." The journalist didn't look happy. "What about we make a deal?" He put a datapad on the table. "This contains how I found you. I will give it to you when you agree to the interview."

He supposed he should've expected that. He chuckled without mirth. "Did you get all of your famous interviews like that?"

"Some," admitted the journalist. "But I never broke a deal."

Which was probably true. Rook had the reputation of being trustworthy and never once had he heard about designations leaked by the journalist. Silverstreak contemplated the offer for a moment, but then he nodded. "Information for information, that's probably fair. But you'll record the interview, right?" Rook nodded. "During the interview I want no hints at all about my current identity. But you probably guessed that, after all the datapad would be worthless to me otherwise."

"I did, yes." Rook slowly, so to give Silverstreak plenty of time to react, took out a small device from his subspaces. "That's a recorder. It will record only the audial of our interview and distort your voice."

Silverstreak looked at curiously, but it really was a simple device. Primitivity was also a kind of protection against hacking. He nodded satisfied.

"Then let's start." Bluestreak nodded in agreement. Rook activated the recorder and leaned towards it. "Good mechs from Cybertron and the many colonies out there, welcome to this interview. My name is Rook and across from me is sitting Bluestreak. He was an Autobot sniper in the Great War and is the adopted creation of the recently deactivated Prowl and Jazz." He looked up, but Silverstreak showed no reaction to the news. "Thank you for joining us, Bluestreak. He has asked me to keep his current identity secret, so please excuse that we will have no visual for this."

Rook leaned back. "Bluestreak, you seem to be aware of what happened in the last orns. So, you probably also noticed that during the trial there was no mech on Cybertron more sought after than you. Why didn't you come?"

Silverstreak shrugged, an oddly fluid gesture with the wings on his back. "Prowl and Jazz didn't want me to come and give up my new life. I tried to convince them at first, but really there wasn’t anything to add to the whole thing." Not to mention that he hadn't wanted the publicity.

"Nothing to add? Are you saying that your testimonies would've incriminated them further?"

Further? Was that even possible? "No," answered Silverstreak. "They never shared any secret plans with me or even put me on any those missions." He sighed. "They tried to keep me apart from their world as good as they could. And I never argued against it. I could see what it was doing to them, I didn't want that. It was enough that I became a soldier, before I became an adult."

The bitterness was cutting, but Rook had found the first glimpse for what he had come. "So they didn't want you to become like them. What was their life style doing to them?"  


Memories bubbled up in Silverstreak, uncontrollable and so very powerful that he had to shutter his eyes. "It wasn't a life style," he said slowly. "It was a duty they had been called for by Sentinel Prime and later by Optimus. They both wanted officers that had moral... and the ability to ignore it." The wings hanged low from his back.

"But Prowl and Jazz weren't their only officers..."

"Sure," agreed the flier. "But Ultra Magnus loves his rules and laws too much to bend them. Ironhide has principles harder than his armour and Elita One, well, he was noble to the spark and would've never even considered it. But you don't win a war with always being nice and predictable. Sometimes you need to sacrifice and kill and murder. To do horrible  
things to mech, even innocent mechs. And for those jobs Prime had Prowl and Jazz."

Rook showed no sign of what he thought of that accusation. "Did the Primes know that the ability to ignore their morals would lead to those atrocities?"

"No." His certainty was absolute. "Well, I don't know about Sentinel, but Optimus? Never. They're Primes, you know? That's their job to find the sparks best suited for something."

The relaxation in Rook was nearly not visible, but there. "It's true that the Primes have always been famous for finding special mechs. Bluestreak, you were the mech closest to them. Can you explain and make us understand more about their crimes and decision to take their own sparks?"

Silverstreak hesitated, staring at the table as he tried to decide between all the things he could say, and the one thing he should say. How to explain a millennia long tragedy that encompassed the whole Great War in a few sentences? When he spoke his words were wistful:  
"There is no simple explanation, Rook. They always seemed so strong, right? As if nothing could break them or their convictions. And I guess we all were right, nothing could... but themselves." He tried to smile weakly, but the mourning was plain obvious. "To me they always were loving creators at first, and officers at second. I needed a long time to understand the personal demons that haunted them. We all never questioned how the solutions were created and what the cost of them was. We just wanted them. Wanted to be told, that we're the good guys."  
He folded his hands on the table, hand pressing against hand with enough force to crush rock. "I was a youngling, when I realised for the first time that there was this facade they had created and which we all not only accepted but loved. That orn is still crystal clear in my memory drive, even though I never found out what mission had gone wrong... but on that orn, Jazz stumbled into our quarters crying."

"Crying," echoed Rook surprised.

"Yeah... I've never before seen him cry too. I was supposed to be recharging, but at that time I loved to this disobey and had stayed awake. Spying through the nearly closed door, I saw how Prowl said nothing and just held him for over a joor. After that time, Jazz stood, dried his tears and said, 'they deserve a burial.' Prowl only nodded at him and Jazz grinned." He stopped for a moment, clearly searching for words as the emotions tried to overwhelm him. "It was that grin... the very same grin that he always wore. He didn't look different, or sad anymore, just like happy, carefree Jazz. As if nothing had happened. It was then that I realised just how good an actor Jazz was."

"Was that the only time something like this happened?"

"No. Sometimes they would just hold each other, sometimes cry." Silverstreak gulped, trying to push the feelings down. "And then after maybe just two breems, they would just stand up and leave again as if nothing had happened. Later, I realised that those incidents coincided with campaigns, missions and other things. I don't know what exactly always happened. But I know that every time they had ignored their core moral coding and done something horrible for the cause. Sometimes they sacrificed mechs, sometimes they tortured them, sometimes... well. You heard in the trial. Often it was even justified and yet, when they were hidden from the world and alone, they were grieving."  


Rook nodded. "Blaster and a few other bots have speculated that they probably felt guilty. Would you agree?"

"Of course they did, but it was more than just that..." Silverstreak shook his head. He looked up and focused on the journalist. This was nothing one just told a bot, no. He would have to lead Rook and all their listeners along a certain path of thoughts. "Rook, what was the question at the trial that they were asked over and over again?"

"Question?" Rook blinked. "If they plead guilty or not... right?"

Silverstreak was relieved that the journalist made it easy for him. "Exactly. But no one bothered to ask if they were guilty before the law. Just how they would plead." Silverstreak leaned forward, wings on his back rising. "And of course, they would plead guilty. Because they felt guilty!"

Rook looked startled at the sudden emotion of his interview partner. "So... you're saying they didn't commit the crimes, but still felt guilty for them? That's a bit contradictory."  


Silverstreak shook his head. "Not at all. If I take a sparkling and tell him that those mechs with a purple sign are evil. Raise the sparkling to fight, to accept violence as normal. Repeat again and again, that the sparks of the purple ones are worth nothing, are released from their sins, when killed... Am I really innocent, when the mech goes on a killing spree as an adult?"

Silence.

For astroseconds no mech moved and the flier just stared at his interviewer, until Rook understood that this wasn't a rhetorical question. "I guess, no. You would be guilty."  
Silverstreak nodded satisfied. "And now imagine, that I am not doing this to a single sparkling, but to Thousands. I subtly lower inhibitions in a whole army, and especially in those mechs used for secret missions. I erase moral coding so that they're able to backstab mechs that seconds ago had been friends... Would I am be guilty, if from time to time a few mechs of that army go mad?"

Rook stared as finally he started to understand the horrible picture. "Yes," he whispered.

"So what do you think? Would've Motormaster become a killer without the war? Would've Sunstreaker and Sideswipe? The Wreckers? Or even Tarn and all the others form the Decepticon Justice Division? Would all of us have killed in a world that knew nothing but peace?!"

"I don't know," said Rook defensively.

Silverstreak though was satisfied and calmed. "Jazz and Prowl believed to know the answer. Their answer was no." The flier looked away from Rook. "Prowl and Jazz could ignore their morals, but they were still there and active, with every single codeline intact. They created soldiers and killers, turned mechs into monsters, while knowing exactly what they were doing to those mechs and grieved for them, but didn't stop, because they thought it necessary. They thought the Autobots and their cause right and good."

"They worked with Starscream and the Decepticons later," pointed Rook out. "It's said that they were the architects of the Peace." A peace that put the Autobots at a severe disadvantage at the beginning.

"Yeah, they were. I think over the years even their beliefs into the Autobot cause dwindled and when Prowl calculated that the war would kill our race if nothing drastically changed... they decided to put every Cybertronian above the Autobot cause." Silverstreak looked at the shocked Rook. "They had sacrificed everything for hundreds of centuries for the cause. Everything. And then, they had to face that it was all for nothing. That it all had only brought death and destruction. But instead of simply crumbling, they turned around and forged the peace agreements, through which they destroyed the cause through their own servos." He flicked a wing, remembering how he himself had just treated the peace like a strange new thing. "Can you imagine their guilt?"

Quietly, Rook shook his head. "The peace agreements broke them...?"

"No. What they had done, broke them. That they had been the engine behind the Great War broke them. Not the peace." He sighed. "The Peace was and is a great thing, don't get me wrong. But when it came, it showed the wounds of the war." His wings trembled as he added: "Even wounds that hadn't been obvious before."

"What kind of wounds?"

"I guess that I was the beginning," he admitted quietly. "I had been so young when the war began, that I only learned and lived by the rules of war. When the Peace came, I was happy... until the world stopped making sense to me. My social protocols were not developed enough and had become entwined with my battle protocols."

Rook frowned. "Couldn't you have switched your battle protocols off? It's a simple procedure and it turned the majority of the armies back into normal civilians."

"The majority... but I didn't have peace time social protocols." He sighed. "I also had no education. No idea about culture, art or even of how a bus system worked. Bureaucracy beyond battle reports was foreign to me..." His optics became dark as he remembered the darkest orns of his life. "I was useful under Starscream's reign, but after Prime released me from duty... I became a street mech."

That shook Rook for a moment. "A street mech? Really?"

"Really. I soon found old comrades. Mostly young former Decepticons, but there were a few Autobots too. We all couldn't deactivate our battle protocols, we all were frustrated, depressed and very, very dangerous to the normal civilians. We fell into gang behaviour, we scared citizens, robbed them out, blackmailed them. It all felt so much more natural than to walk into a shop and ask for a price."

"Did you enjoy frightening them?"

Silverstreak looked at the table. Remembered the many painful incidents and his own glee. "Sometimes."

"Prowl and Jazz saw that?"

"At first, they saw me." He sighed, those orns were still painful to him, a shame deeply buried. Their anger at his situation had only been a poor mask for their horror and worry. He had tried to shove them away, but they had grown only more determined and found him again and again. But the most striking moment, the one he would never forget, was their expressions of pure relief when he finally accepted their help. "They brought me to a psychologist, swore him into secrecy. Soon, they brought the others too. And then, they made us an offer..."

Rook sat straighter as he made a connection to what an Enforcer called Nightbeat had told him. He had thought it unimportant then, but now it seemed to be the key: "A 'chance at life'- offer?"

"Exactly." The flier nodded. "They placed us under an obligation to go to the psychologists, to the coders and everything. In return, they created a new look for us, a new life that would fit our personality and needs."

Well, the network and they did it. The network had no real name, it was just mechs working together to give them this chance. He knew only a few of them. And even less knew his new identity. He wondered who of those had betrayed him.

"That sounds like a very generous offer."

"It is." Especially as they expected nothing else in return. No secret missions, no loyalty. Nothing. Instead they had offered life, home and a strange sense of a new family. Of belonging together.

Rook was thoughtful. "... you said before that mechs went mad. I guess those mechs are still around, even though they weren't mentioned in the trials?"

"Yes."

"And they have a new identity as well?"

"Yes." Silverstreak wondered if Rook understood that he and his war brothers, those who secretly called Prowl and Jazz their second creators, would have stormed the prison at the slightest doubt that this wasn't exactly what those two wanted. They would've thrown the planet into a new civil war without regret. But they had said no. And he and his war brothers could do nothing but respect those wishes.

Maybe Rook did, as he paled a bit. "Do you really want to tell me, that the mechs that committed all those crimes for which Prowl and Jazz died, are running around free on Cybertron without anyway to recognise them?"

"Well... yes and no." Silverstreak flicked a wing. "We call it the 'last clause'. It says that we got a second chance - but only one second chance. Everyone of us has a secret observer who is part of the network. We don't know his identity or name, but he's there. And should we fall back into old habits, those observers are under orders to kill us."

"That's harsh..." said Rook quietly. "And not very lawful."

"It keeps us in line," answered Silverstreak with a strange, sharp smile. "Death is a consequence mechs with active battle protocols understand far better than things like prisons."

On his darkest orns this death thread had been the only thing that had kept him in line. With it he could forget all the incomprehensible rules of society, the hundreds of laws that felt like a cage, the strange notion of justice and punishment and consequences that just might be worth it... instead he concentrated on the simple knowledge, that if he did that, he would be deactivated. It was their safety net.

"I see..." said Rook.

"Really?" Silverstreak looked at him sceptically. "Then tell me, why Prowl and Jazz choose to take the blame for all of us murderers and monsters?"

"Because they felt guilty to have turned you into such."

"Partially." Silberstreak smiled. "But also, because there is this funny little thing: No one searches for a murderer who has already been found, trialled and sentenced, right?"

Who had also been declared dead by various medics and Enforcers on site.

Rook stared and the flier could see how the last pieces fell to their places. Prowl and Jazz hadn't not only done this out of guilt, but also because they had wanted to protect the youngest members of their society, those that were still paying the price. No one would ever search again for these criminals. Not until they committed new crimes. "... You're right. But why tell me this then? This interview will go online, everyone will hear it."

"Of course. But I'm a lone mech. Less even, I'm just a voice. Evidence says differently than I, right?" That was what he had learned from his creators – evidence always was supreme.

"Right..." The journalist looked at the flier across from him with new appreciation. "I guess than I have only two questions left."

Silverstreak tried to hide his relief that it was nearly over. "Shoot."

"First, Jazz called you from the enforcer headquarters, right?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

Silverstreak sighed. "I guess... they were walking to their death and just wanted to be assured that I..." He gulped. "That I don't hate them for it."

"Do you?"

"No. Never. How could I?" He smiled suddenly. "I yelled a lot though. Jazz couldn't react how he wanted, but that didn't matter, I think I've never spoken so fast in my life before."  


Rook reflexively returned the smile. "The call certainly had the effect to drive the Enforcers mad."

"Ironhide?" asked Silverstreak amused.

"Ironhide," confirmed Rook, who had tried to interview the Enforcer, but had always been rebuffed. His colleagues hadn't proven to be that resistant. "And the last question is about the rumour that they just faked their death. That they're still alive. What do you think?"

For a few astroseconds Silverstreak just looked at him, then his faceplates split apart and he laughed. Actually laughed. For the first time it was obvious just how young he really was. "I guess, I will see them again, one way or the other." Probably sooner, they had promised. Still chuckling, he stood up and took the datapad that was now his own. "I think the interview is now completed, right?"

"Yes." Rook said a few more words to his listeners, then deactivated the recorder.

The sudden silence in the room as no one spoke was startling. Silverstreak felt his glitch acting up, wanting to force him to speak and so he hurried to the door, unwilling to give even more information. Yet when he reached it, a thought occurred him and he turned around. "You can stay here and rest for a joor, then the storm will break."

As he looked at the tired journalist, he couldn't see any of the danger and threat he had felt not so long ago. Deep in his cortex his battle protocols settled down, giving over to a small nest of code lines which were still tender and new. Silverstreak relaxed and smiled softly: "No charge this time."

Rook blinked surprised at the kindness. "Thank you."

Silverstreak inclined his helmet and left. Outside he glanced at the datapad, finding as expected the glyphs of Wheeljack, the creator of his current frame and so many others. Wheeljack who had always been a fan of Rook… and very loyal to Prowl and Jazz - his beloved, but very manipulative creators. No doubt they had ordered Wheeljack to send Rook here, so that Bluestreak could explain the true reasons without destroying their plan. He had to smile as he realised that he had probably just done well and made them proud.

That they had trusted him with this.

Below were other mechs Rook had interviewed and which had given up small, unimportant pieces of information about Bluestreak. An Enforcer called Nightbeat, Red Alert, Smokescreen, Rung…

A short command and all information were deleted.

Humming, he walked back the bar, where he had already been missed. Soon, he was again chatting with his guests, giving out energon and friendly words, turning the little refugee in the middle of a desert into a warm home.  


Outside the storm howled on.


	11. Epilogue

 

  1. Epilogue



 

The following orns were quiet; a stunned silence had overtaken the planet. The protesters had went home side by side with the supporters. Those that had demanded acquittal and threatened with revolution, were as a lost as those who had watched in glee and with deep burning satisfaction.

It was over.

Two heroes had fallen. Two villians had died. Two legends had left their legacy.

The Enforcers finished their investigation of the death of Prowl and Jazz with a bleak and short confirmation that it indeed had been a double suicide through poison. Mixmaster published its formula, and those of many other of his during the war invented poisons, with the wish, that this former lost knowledge would help medics to understand the matter of spark and frame better.

Two orns later, the young, by now famous lawyer, Sunburst, called in a press conference. A colourful sea of reporters and journalists showed up to broadcast, when the flier stepped on the small stage with a dertermined face and a single datapad in hand. He looked older now than when the trial began, older and sadder and sharper.

With calm words, Sunburst explained that Prowl and Jazz had left a last message, which the Enforcers had kept under lock and key for the last several orns as it had been a central part of the investigation. Now, though, was the time to read their last words.

He read.

And Cybertron listened.

Ironhide behind him, arms crossed, face stoic, optics filled with nothing but sorrow.

Trypticon with every sensor and Fortress Maximus in his centre, both quiet and with acceptance.

Ravage and Nightbeat, together on the couch, on their fourth meeting in the detective's apartment that they still didn't call a date.

Optimus Prime, surrounded by friends, which he didn't see as tears blurred the world, but felt as they held him steadily.

Tyrest with his pen in hand, the first sentence of his biography in front of him, feeling the weight of justice on his shoulders.

Mirage and Hound over the radio, in the middle of the former tower ruins that have become wilderness, stopping and waiting for another word, another message that wouldn't came.

Ratchet and Wheeljack on the street, on the way to an apartment inspection, looking up at the screens; alone, until they took each other's hands; together, until the crowd cried with them in one voice.

Silverstreak in his tavern, trembling, knowing he was now alone, but as a hand touched his, another cleaned the spilled energon cube, and a third led him to a chair without asking why, he realised he would never be.

Sunburst read:

 

_Dear Cybertronians,_

_for some of you our decision will be incomprehensible, for some it will bring satisfaction._

_We know that we're guilty in every comprehensible way and our last wish was not to force another spark into a double-murder under the banner of justice. Let it end here. Let us be the last ones to die._

_To all of you, we can only say: We tried our best and we're aware of how utterly we failed sometimes._

_Please forgive us what we did._

_Please forgive us what we did to you._

_Even more, forgive us for what we didn't do._

_Do not forget as we had forgotten that we all live on one planet, have one spark, are one race. Let this most wonderful, horrible truth be our good-bye and promise:_

_We all are one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all those who wonder: Prowl and Jazz did plan everything for a long time. They realised that lasting peace can only be restored by providing justice and began by themselves. But they weren't entirely selfless and also wanted a new life for themselves. So yes, they escaped. How? :) Well, we know from canon that sparks can survive within boxes. They simply left their own bodies, and replaced their spark chambers with Wheeljack's replicas - which were those Mirage brought. Wheeljack though made the mistake of copying his own sparkchamber. Nothing anyone could notice but Ratchet, who chose to keep quiet. Their spark's were put into storage within Trypticon, until things were quieter. Then the boxes were brought out and they received new bodies.
> 
> I want to admit though that it was a hard thing to not let them die. For most chapters I was undecided. In the end I really don't think that they're selfless enough to truly sacrifice themselves. Optimus Prime would've died without hesitation.
> 
> Future: I've written more in this universe, which I will upload in as a separate stoy, because it happens before Aftermath. These stories follow the rise and fall of Starscream, as he struggles between love and power and Bluestreak as he tries to reinvent himself, while becoming Motormaster's best friend. A third story might follow Soundwave and his creations, especially Ravage who managed to become one of my favourite characters with only one chapter.
> 
> Though, the next project I want to turn to is again Orns of a Tactician.
> 
> Thank you to all who've read so far. I hope you enjoyed the scenario.
> 
> ~ silber


End file.
